Although I would contend that it is James Woods, not Harry Bloom, who takes the prize for "most ponderous and tiresome literary critic," I otherwise enjoin you to read this brief snippet on The Flower hisself, whom the Times' exhumed from a coffin filled with the knishes of his native land to fire rounds of anti-anti-Semitic birdshot in the direction of The Entire History of Literature, excluding the increasingly self-parodic Elie Weisel. What is rather hilarious about Bloom, aside from everything else, is that he is exactly the Dead-White-Guy, Canon-Defender who will haughtily brush aside the complaints by some theory-sop Wuhmyn Of Color when she objects to, say, Conrad spouting "nigger!" every fourth or fifth word. Indeed, it is practice to almost gleefully swipe aside as anachronistic the strong concerns and major objections of your sundry feminists and Subaltern studiers and postcolonialites and whathaveyou, but let us not catch some Victorian turning a jaundiced eye toward ye Jew. I mean, I like Daniel Deronda as much as the next guy, but would not want it as my sole companion on a desert island if my other choice were Shylock.