I shall call him the ego-frisky reviewer. The term
(which I am quite aware is a barbarous compound) I am led to
invent in order to describe the phenomenon of a critic whose ego
frisks merrily over the corpus of his book. He is not so modern a
product as he himself believes. The vituperative critics of the
Quarterlies and, earlier still, of Grub Street, used their
enemies' books as a means of indulging their needs for self-
expression. But it was wrath, jealousy, vindictiveness, or
political enmity which they discharged while seated on the body of
the foe; whereas the ego-friskish critic has no such bile in him.
He is in fact a product of the new advertising psychology, which
says, "Be human" (by which is meant "be personal") "first of all."
He regards his book (I know this, because he has often told me so)
as a text merely, for a discourse which must entertain the reader.
And his idea of entertainment is to write about himself, his
tastes, his moods, his reactions. Either he praises the book for
what it does to his ego, or damns it for what it did to his ego.
You will never catch him between these extremes, for moderation is
not his vice.
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