Henri Peyre (1901–1988)

This book is positively unreadable, for the simple reason that the author has reached his conclusion by page one, and all that remains is a snarky, snippy, and catty examination of the remains. There's next to no investigation of the central question, and what little there is is buried between the endless high-falutin' discourses the author has with himself. The prose consists of endless catty analysees of authors that the writer presumes everyone else knows as well as he does. But if I knew all those writers intimately, why would I be reading this book? This book doesn't inform. It's not even an expert's guide to Romanticism. All it is is one man's petulant smarter-than-thou justification for his advance.… (more)