Box of Books offers up five good reasons to read Henry James. I’m touched by the protectiveness of the post generally, and particularly by this intimation that he’s discussed routinely enough to be the continual butt of humorous remarks at fashionable parties: “But I do like him, and in an effort to share the love, here’s five reasons why you shouldn’t laugh on cue the next time someone makes a Henry James joke.” Unless you are going to be running into the ghost of H. G. Wells–
It is a magnificent but painful hippopotamus resolved at any cost, even at the cost of its dignity, upon picking up a pea, which has got to the corner of its den.
–it doesn’t seem all that likely an eventuality. I think we should all agree now, though, that if any of us do find ourselves in such a painful situation we’ll channel and even escalate Box of Books‘s admirable protective instinct, make a beeline for our coats, and storm out in righteous indignation. C’mon, he’s the Master, it’s the least you can do!
(Link courtesy of Dan Green.)