Heap big voodoo for people who think they want to be cultured
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I read this a month or two ago when it came out. Found myself rereading when it showed up on Arts & Letters Daily this morning. A very edifying and entertaining spectacle of a best selling writer whose success probably lies mostly in his sweeping turgidity.
Born in 1930, Harold Bloom began his professional life as a critic of Romantic poetry, and quite a good one, as his book The Visionary Company still shows. But his ambition grew out of all bounds, and he soon became the intellectual equivalent of that character in P. G. Wodehouse of whom Wodehouse writes that he looked like someone who was poured into his clothes but forgot to say when.