A friend was talking here about reviews of their diverse range of books, academic and non-. Most reviewers of both bemoan the authors ignorance in not covering the reviewers own kink as fully as the reviewer would wish, or, even more strangely, picking up two passing references in a 300 page book and lamenting the book was not about something else. It is true that a book becomes another thing when it leaves you, a Rorschach blot. But it is about what it says it is about, and not what it is not about. This has lead to a three day thought about the valorization of idiots and their feelings by the internet, instead of the valorization of remarkable sensitive and authoritative readers like Michael Andre Bernstein, for example, the most sensitive reader I can think of off the top of my head. Sometimes I can do this, for example, as a friend once said, tell him something that he was looking at was, as well, a whole nother story I knew about. Ive had the pleasure of going to art exhibits with two different art historians, which was like the news from heaven. Standing in front of a very humble van Gogh of scruffy Dutch wooden clogs, one word: *Sabotage*. OH! Anyway, Bernstein, a professor of literature, is such a good reader, the kind of magician who, like Dr. J or Baryshnikov, is 1000 per cent better than the expert hes standing next to, which is discernible even to the eye of a girl like I, that I fear for his kind. And wonder why the valiant among us listen to the cretins roar.
Posted on: Tue, 30 Dec 2014 20:39:11 +0000
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