Flying Colours

You spend the entirety of this book inside Horatio Hornblower's head, from the sense of degradation as a captive (yet a noble prisoner) of the enemy French, through the idyllic middle section as he and his men chance upon the most helpful ally imaginable, to the one real action scene as he makes off with a small ship and fights off pursuit, on to the amazing ending where he is confronted with some ugly political realities of the country he has served. This is no flawless hero, but a man keenly aware of his deceptions, his shortcomings, and his dissatisfaction with what once he thought would be sufficient. And yet all obstacles melt away in front of him over the course of the tale, at least all the ones which lie outside himself, when he discovers he's gained everything and, at the same time, nothing of what he truly needs. If this book were written today it probably would have been padded out to triple its length with more action and intrigue, but in the 1930s in Britain I suppose it was just fine to write an adventure novel that spends nearly as much time time in character study as what one would call a work of 'literary' fiction.