So, in the vein of travel literature, a collection of James's notes on Italy in various chapters.
He discusses Ruskin, enthuses about long forgotten and minor painters, out of fashion: Tintoretto, Carpaccio, Titian, dozens of others, enthusing and curating according to his tastes, postcard descriptions of the people, the pervading melancholy, and I'm rather haunted that I know Venice of this age, from Turner, or abundant other artists, or maybe some previous life, I recognize it well enough from his descriptions, I've never been, and - strangely, am not particular inclined, I have the feeling that I would somehow know it all, there would be that recognition of it, a deja-vu from the countless books I've read and paintings I've seen. Or that, so hyped by the preceding it could only let me down.
Anyways, I'm not a fan of his style, something about it - it's hard to put my finger on - not his writing or prose, more where he turns his attention that disinterests me. And, upon reflection, not even this. But what then? Sentences that run on a hundred or more words, with dozens of semicolons and commas, that meander around my beleaguered attention span, I would have done as well to look at a few dozens of paintings in a gallery as I would have to read this book.