Here is a detailed article about Henry Green from The New Yorker in Oct 2016. It provides a glimpse of what to expect. I skipped over the section on
Loving to avoid any spoilers. I thought that it was interesting that he was an industrialist as his day-job and wrote under a different name.
http://www.newyorker.com/magazine/20...-unknowability
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The Henry Green novel—typically portraying failures of love and understanding, and noisy with the vernacular of industrialists and Cockneys, landowners and servants—was terse, intimate, full of accident and unnerving comedy, exquisite though still exuberant, sensual and whimsical, reflexively figurative yet always surprising, preoccupied with social nuance, generational discord, and sensory phenomena while maintaining an air of abstraction, as reflected in those flighty gerund titles. (The Oxford classicist Maurice Bowra, who knew the undergraduate Green, said that his mind “worked with a piercing insight, stripping men and ideas of their disguises and going straight to some central point.”)
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One of the things that appealed to Green’s admirers, such as Southern and the French writer Nathalie Sarraute—and, later, John Updike—was that he had thought deeply about what he was doing. In this, he resembled Henry James, whose preface to “What Maisie Knew” he had read carefully. Green was going for something that was not so different: fiction that was illuminating, yet disorderly enough to convey—in James’s words, “really to represent”—a sense of life. And, as with James, the desire led him in extreme directions.
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