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Most Helpful Customer Reviews
4 of 6 people found the following review helpful:
2.0 out of 5 stars
He Speaks Too Much,
By
This review is from: Even As We Speak: New Essays 1993 - 2000 (Paperback)
This book of essays by James was disappointing. Compared to his earlier autobiographical works such as "Unreliable Memoirs" it is tedious and inclined to wallow in self importance.Many of the book's articles were taken from New Yorker magazine and, perhaps it goes without saying, that they are long and rambling. To spend half an hour reading some dreary set of opinions on an esoteric film director is not fun. I often found myself flicking through the pages to the next article in the hope that it would be more enticing. However, two sections were genuinely interesting. His articles on Princess Diana are adulatory in the extreme but quite readable. Unfortunately, I cannot lose my view that she was granted importance well beyond her abilities. Also, his final section on the Sydney Olympics show real insight to the events of September 2000. To have been in Sydney at that time was to witness something quite magical and James does succeed in passing some of the magic to the reader. Overall, I cannot recommend this book to the reader. Two sections of interest fail to overcome the remainder of the book and its tediousness.
2 of 3 people found the following review helpful:
5.0 out of 5 stars
Clive's reaction to Di's death is a high-camp masterpiece,
By Gooch McCracken (c/o your haunted slab of Velveeta) - See all my reviews
This review is from: Even As We Speak: New Essays 1993 - 2000 (Paperback)
Andrew Desmond said: "His articles on Princess Diana are adulatory in the extreme but quite readable. I cannot loose my view that she was granted an importance well beyond her abilities."
Well, maybe because her importance complemented Clive's self-importance so conveniently. Di's death gave Clive the chance to brag about his dinner dates with her. Seriously. I swear I'm not making this up. But more importantly, check out his obituary's opening lines: "No. It was the first word of that cataclysmic Sunday morning: 'no' pronounced through an ascending sob, the consonant left behind in the chest voice as the vowel climbed into the head voice, the pure wail of lament whereby anyone, no matter how tone deaf, for one terrible moment becomes a singer." Oh the humanity!
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