Death is the sound of distant thunder at a picnic.
W. H. AudenRead
Attacking bad books is not only a waste of time but also bad for the character. If I find a book really bad, the only interest I can derive from writing about it has to come from myself, from such display of intelligence, wit and malice as I can contrive. One cannot review a bad book without showing off.
Interpretation
Critiquing poor literature can reveal more about the critic's character than the book itself.
W. H. Auden suggests that criticizing or attacking bad books is counterproductive and may reflect negatively on the critic's character. He argues that when one engages in reviewing a poorly written book, the motivation should stem from self-reflection and the ability to showcase one's intelligence rather than a genuine assessment of the book itself, as such critiques can often reveal more about the reviewer than the work in question.
In practice
During a literary discussion, one might quote Auden to emphasize the futility of critiquing bad literature.
Death is the sound of distant thunder at a picnic.
That the speech of self-disclosure should be translatable seems to me very odd, but I am convinced that it is. The conclusion that I draw is that the only quality which all human being without exception possess is uniqueness: any characteristic, on the other hand, which one individual can be recognized as having in common with another, like red hair or the English language, implies the existence of other individual qualities which this classification excludes.
Nobody knows what the cause is, though some pretend they do; it like some hidden assassin waiting to strike at you. Childless women get it, and men when they retire; it as if there had to be some outlet for their foiled creative fire.
History is, strictly speaking, the study of questions; the study of answers belongs to anthropology and sociology.
Music is the best means we have of digesting time.
'Healing,' Papa would tell me, 'is not a science, but the intuitive art of wooing nature.'
All your restlessness is out of your desire for stillness Just desire restlessly, then, love will fill and still you. All your unhealthiness is out of your desire for health, Just abandon health, then, even poison will heal you.
Why do you put your self esteem in the hands of complete strangers?
I cannot speculate on what our cluttered mind will save- sleepy Sundays, or a nosebleed after love. I know only the dying heart needs the nourishment of memory to live beyond too many winters.
You will not become a saint through other people's sins.
It seems like suffering's the only time we can see what's essential. If peace ever comes back I'm making a vow: I'll design myself special glasses. They'll block out whether people are fat or thin or beautiful or weird-looking, whether they have pimples or birthmarks or different coloured skin. They'll do everything suffering's done for us, but without the pain. I'm going to wear those glasses for the rest of my life.
Failure is information-we label it failure, but it's more like, 'This didn't work, I'm a problem solver, and I'll try something else.'
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