Observation, Layered...

 

The role of critic or reviewer can appear a thin and shallow one, or, as in the case of the celebrity critic, intrusive and overbearing. Some indeed make careers out of their own personalities, which they willingly tout over and above their subjects' achievements, sometimes in the service of arch humour - Dorothy Parker, for instance - or in cementing themselves in the history of a field in which they otherwise play no part: Clement Greenberg on the American Abstract Expressionists - writing about the various and varied works of a collection of hitherto unconnected artists,  and concocting a narrative of a native, white 'American' art movement where none previously existed. The former much-quoted as deeply, spikily, humorous; the latter, much contested as confected, self-serving and historicist.

However, sometimes, one crosses the path of a piece of critical writing that transcends the trite, the self-aggrandizing and the stylized. In today's Observer, there is a book review that in and of itself, took me aback in the quality, not only of its form, but in the emotional response to its subject, and frankly made me tear up in empathy with a text I've not even read [yet], such was the beauty and honesty of the review. All I can say is that I take my hat off to Rachel Cooke for her beautiful piece on Melvyn Bragg's new book, 'Back in the Day: A Memoir': a stunning piece of writing, and an exemplar to anyone aspiring to create in what is, after all, a very, very difficult art to perfect.