The Critic

I can think of few jobs worse than that of the literary critic.

I was trained, rigorously and with great attention to detail, by what seems to have been the last of a band of classically trained teachers in Maynooth in the early 1970's.

I liked writing essays, to a certain extent, but could not work up enough passion or nerve to criticise the fine texts before us with any clarity or zeal.

That it is why I am enjoying a collection of Henry James's book reviews from the late 19th century so much. Mr James has none of my squeamishness and is highly entertaining on the subject of Balzac, Flaubert and a misfortunate M. Octave Feuillet who is dispatched with the following:

"... there are few story-tellers of our day who know how to tell their story better than M. Octave Feuillet, though we must add that it may sometimes be a question whether his story was worth telling."

I would be frightened of giving offense by writing in such a vein.

In this blog I have the choice of writing about books that I enjoy reading, which is not the lot of the professional critic.