One of the mild consolations of my Monday mornings is popping online to see who's been trashing whom in the books section of the weekend papers (I never have the time to read these over the weekend itself due to the rigorous demands of sleep, food &etc). Today, for instance, I note that Julian Barnes's memoir has received its comeuppance at the hands of John Carey, that Glyn Maxwell has suffered in the Sindie, and that James Wood has been well and truly skewered by Peter Kemp in a delightfully withering review for the Sunday Times, which begins by recalling Wood's regular appearances as a Private Eye pseud and moves downhill from there. In terms of metaphor, Kemp notes,
As readers of his reviews will know, letting Wood anywhere near figurative language is like giving an alcoholic the keys to a distillery. In no time, he’s unsteady and comprehensibility is a casualty.
Kemp, of course, is keen for us to realise that figurative language—deadly to the dipsomaniacal Wood—is safe and well in his own sober hands. But a critic criticising a critic by embedding his criticisms in the form of his criticism? My head is starting to hurt already, and all I've had is a couple of cups of tea…
