After this Paris put up a statue to Becque. But
it is only a bust. You can see it in the Avenue de Villiers.
HENRY JAMES
_27 Oct. '10_
At the beginning of this particularly active book season, reviewing the
publishers' announcements, I wrote: "There are one or two promising items,
including a novel by Henry James. And yet, honestly, am I likely at this
time of day to be excited by a novel by Henry James? Shall I even read it?
I know that I shall not. Still, I shall put it on my shelves, and tell my
juniors what a miracle it is." Well, I have been surprised by the amount
of resentment and anger which this honesty of mine has called forth. One
of the politest of my correspondents, dating his letter from a city on the
Rhine, says: "For myself, it's really a rotten shame; every week since
'Books and Persons' started have I hoped you would make some elucidating
remarks on this wonderful writer's work, and now you don't even state why
you propose not reading him!" And so on, with the result that when "The
Finer Grain" (Methuen, 6s.) came along, I put my pride in my pocket, and
read it. (By the way, it is not a novel but a collection of short stories,
and I am pleased to see that it is candidly advertised as such.) I have
never been an enthusiast for Henry James, and probably I have not read
more than 25 per cent.
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