... though i'd stear clear of the pound book called something like 'how to read', because it's pompous horseshit.
to plug my usual bestest friend dead white men:
william carlos williams wrote some good stuff, but i've yet to find enough of it in the same place to be sure if he's really that interesting. he wrote an essay on whitman that takes a hilarious side-swipe at eliot; it's extremely funny when you combine it with that bit in 'paterson' where he effectively lists reasons why aprils' actually quite a NICE month.
beckett's short book on proust, cunningly entitled 'proust', is so good that when i read it, i kicked my mum in the face. it's both a sexy meditation on proust, and an equally nadsy piece on beckett himself; if you want an example of a great author being a great critic, in my humble, there's nothing better.
perhaps reversing the poles a little, but roland barthes's 'roland barthes on roland barthes' warms the cockles of my dry-rotten heart. barthes was always an extremely good writer, but his later stuff, 'camera lucida' as well, provides an example of someone who's usually thought of as a critic producing something i can't help but feel could step into the artistic ring and have most literary texts, with both hands tied behind its back and its left eyebrow shaved off. |