The conveniently dead Henry James might have even agreed with him. So it must be fun and joyful to watch him explain why What Maisie Knew pulls off the irony of this style better than other examples. A lot of the discussion of How Fiction Works has fallen to Wood's argument about 'free indirect style,' whereby an author narrates subtly from the perspective of one of his characters ('Ted watched the orchestra through stupid tears,' with 'stupid' being really how Ted thinks of his own tears). Here he is hauling out all of his old favorites - Chekhov, Tolstoy, James, Nabokov, Bellow - as evidence of the best way to pull of a particular artistic trick. One possible explanation: Wood's latest anatomy of the good novel deals mainly with dead authors and the entire work is more of an affirmation than a negation.

Yes, James Wood is very good indeed, but isn't this collective gush somewhat unexpected for a critic so long and notoriously associated with the New Republic school of moralizing discouragement? Either it's a testament to his unignorable genius or to the fear with which most other reviewers regard him that he's been pan-fellated in the press. Spock because his treatment of literature reminds her of the advice given by a nurturing but authoritative parenting mentor (Emily Bazelon must have edited that piece). And today Judith Shulevitz in Slate sort of likens Wood to Dr. Times panted through a Best in Show allegory about whether it was proper or paltry to call Wood our finest literary critic before deciding, at the end of his review, that that's just what he is. Frank Kermode in TNR compared it favorably ('a much more substantial study') to E.M. With the publication of his newest book, How Fiction Works, James Woods has found himself the recipient of praise that struggles to contain itself.

How Fiction Works by James Wood