Ideally, works of fiction don’t need to be explained. When I see one of those scholarly and well-crafted essays that always seem to precede a volume of Jane A usten or Dorothy Parker, I skip it. Yes, I do. If it looks promising, I come back and read it when I’m done with the fiction. But I’d rather not know beforehand that a character is based on the author’s brother, or that the author had just been cruelly rejected by his childhood sweetheart when he began chapter 10. I like biography; but Charlotte Bronte isn’t Jane Eyre, and Louisa A lcott isn’t Jo March, and I don’t want to be lured into thinking otherwise if the author doesn’t want me to. I wonder sometimes how authors would feel if they read the introductions that spring up in front of their works after they’re too dead to say anything about them. [download]
Format : Ebook.Pdf
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