The Real Thing

I've been reading Northrop Frye's Anatomy of Criticism in tandem with Trollope's Can You Forgive Her? They make an odd pair. But then anything by Frye makes an odd pair with whatever you put it up against. I suppose if you can have a favourite literary critic, a breed I generally detest, then Frye is it. You don't so much read Anatomy of Criticism as get lost in its goofy pattern-making and dazzling insights - I reckon at least three dazzlers, minimum, per page. Interestingly, I think I understand the overall thesis on this reading less than on my previous two. Always a good sign.

To some degree this is all preliminary to a reading of Fearful Symmetry, Frye's greatest book (I think) on Blake, I'm planning for later in the year - when I get a life again. I first read FS after innocently coming across it in the school library at Xaverian College, the scene of a good deal of my misspent youth. Talk about a window opening on the world: the realisation that things were a good deal more complex than I had hitherto suspected was welcome if somewhat intimidating for a kid who'd not that long since graduated from the Bunter books. (Does anyone still read Frank Richards?)

I hasten to add that the Frye itself is intended as preliminary to a big push on Blake's Prophetic Books and assorted goodies. And I'm planning a major Hughes festival of one. You've got to get beyond the critics, no matter how good they are, and Lear-like deal with the thing itself.