It’s easy to see the effect this idea might have on a young writer, already predisposed to a certain anxious and depressive temperament, and I was more than a bit destabilized and stress-ridden by the time I’d imbibed the Bloomian philosophy myself. It’s also easy to see the controversial side of his theory. It is, after all, a fairly unforgiving—even despairing—philosophy. Where is the ecstasy of influence? Where is the joy of borrowing? Where is the classical ideal, held from Aristotle to the Renaissance, of the artist as artificer, as an imitator of nature, employer of all fittest forms? All well and good, says Bloom. Yet all must be laid, finally, on the altar of Memory. Life is short, our memories are shorter, and what lasts is whatever matters most, for the condition of our minds and souls. This position is exactly what it sounds like: an essentially religious one, befitting a critic fond of saying that there is no real difference between secular and sacred literature.
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