I’m not a professional critic, but I’m a natural one. If you scratch the surface of any professional critic, there must be a natural one. For, what kind of job is that? What is its purpose? The job grew from a desire to ruin with words a creation constructed by others. Then it becomes a question of ambition, your either earn from it or you blog about it.

I give in to my nature, which my idol would have never approved of. “Eunuchs of literature”. Perfect choice of words, as always.

There’s more: “Critics are men who watch a battle from a high place then come down and shoot the survivors.” But another metaphor brings it more home to me. It’s about big mindless fishes that come to the boat and devour a fisherman’s treasured and hard-earned catch.

I’m the fish, although a very self-aware one. I pick my books very carefully, and I stay away from anything predisposed to devouring.