This will not be typical James-bashing. Lots of people like Jemes, and I am (albeit ambivalently) one of them. But THE AMERICAN SCENE reads as if it were written by Shakespeare's Polonius. It is verbose, abstract, repetitious, precious, and pedantic. Whenever he deigns to try, actually try, to describe a person, place, or thing, he inevitably gets it wrong. Most of the time, though, it is just James head-tripping as he moves from Pullman to Pullman, hotel to hotel, eventually coming to the (solipcistic) conclusion that America's very epicenter is Pullmans and hotels -- and, of course, that the two are the same thing. He is a little like Baudrillard touring the American West -- missing everything that's really THERE, while boring us to death with his trying-too-hard, impressionistic "sensibility." He is only interested in himself, in his "takes," and he is ludicrous in his constant lament that this particular subject (early twentieth-century America) isn't good enough for his talents. He is J. Alfred Prufrock staring in frightened disgust at "the people, my dear, the people" from his train window He is like the man in Stevens' "Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird" who "rode over Connecticut in a glass coach [while] the only thing moving was the eye of the blackbird." Indeed. For James never really moves either. The only thing moving is his overheated free-associating mind and his hand as it cranks out ream after ream of contentless blithering.