Have started paying a little more attention to the terrific British criticism in Jacket, by the likes of James Keery, Andrew Duncan, Steve Clark et al. My thundering ignorance. & the feeling that I'm stepping into a nest of quite poisonous serpent-varmints. Sense in these writers an almost-incurable English angst, with compensatory vehemence... or is it just that they don't share my odious American (or just plain Henry) complacency?

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