
There can be only one reason why I am reading The Master. Because Colm Toibin's favorably reviewed novel about Henry James is about an eminent literary figure, like Cunningham's Hours and Duffy's Wittgenstein book. Henry James, the stiffy, or his elaborate and demanding books are certainly not the reason. How I was suffering while trying to read The Wings of the Dove! Only two of his books survived my limited eagerness to read the work of Thomas Mann's American twin brother: The Portrait of a Lady and either The Bostonians or The Ambassadors. I do not remember. It is so long ago, 20 years.
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