There are some topics that demand a certain élan on the part of the writer. For instance, I relish Gayatri Spivak's bombastic style when she writes about postcolonialism: it's a rather murky concept, and a bit of rapturizing, of dressing up simple concepts in fancy language, is expected. On the other hand, there is nothing worse than adopting a tone that does not suit the subject matter. Didi-Huberman commits this grave fault, and turns what could have been an absorbing, clear study of the etiology of hysteria into mostly unintelligible, post-modern gobbledygook. The real shame is that truly fascinating tidbits are so drowned in verbosity that by the latter half of the book, you stop looking for them. In sum, the author thinks he's being deep, in the best style of Foucault or Deleuze, but he's not: the Emperor is naked (and far too wordy).