I haven't had a chance to actually read it yet, but because this essay on the nature of character in The Guardian is not only written by James Wood, but also references Pnin and The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie, I will have no real choice but to read it later.
(My bobby soxeresque enthusiasm for James Wood's critical essays is not as gushing as it once was, but I still read pretty much everything I can find with his name attached to it.)
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A very subtle and funny writer - one I've become obsessed with over the past year - in a decidedly Muriel Spark mood. Imagine The Pr...
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I think Mr Wood's well may be almost empty. It doesn't surprise me that his own fiction is so bloodless given how much he apparently needs to over think things. Or maybe it's just a paycheque now. I dunno. But I found this piece unreadable.
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