An amusingly wrong-headed book
about Homer is a peccadillo; ten years of life lavished upon it is
something a good deal more serious. And even _The Way of all Flesh_,
which as an experimental novel is a very considerable achievement,
becomes something different when we have to regard it as a laborious and
infinitely careful record of experienced fact. Further still, even the
edge of the perfected inconsequence of certain of the 'Notes' is
somewhat dulled when we see the trick of it being exercised. The origin
of the amusing remark on Blake, who 'was no good because he learnt
Italian at over 60 in order to read Dante, and we know Dante was no good
because he was so fond of Virgil, and Virgil was no good because
Tennyson ran him--well, Tennyson goes without saying,' is to be found in
'No, I don't like Lamb. You see, Canon Ainger writes about him, and
Canon Ainger goes to tea with my aunts.' Repeated, it becomes merely a
clever way of being stupid, as we should be if we were tempted to say
we couldn't bear Handel, because Butler was mad on him, and Butler was
no good because he was run by Mr Jones, and, well, Mr Jones goes without
saying.
Pages:
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166