Dr Adam James Smith

@elementaladam.bsky.social

Chief Reviews Editor, Journal for 18th-Century Studies (JECS). Interests: #18C Print Culture, esp Satire & Periodicals. Podcast: http://anchor.fm/satire-no-more (@talkaboutsatire.bsky.com)

The power of laughter: Thomas Rowlandson, English caricaturist, satirised absurdities of Georgian England, born #OTD 1756. Doctor Convex & Lady Concave 1802; A Little Tighter 1791; A Little Bigger 1791: coloured etchings. Royal Collection Trust

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I think McKenzie Crooke should run #DoctorWho for two short seasons, small scale but creepy and magical in a cozy folk horror kind of way, with a beguiling bohemian doctor who is somehow both charming and awkward at the same time. And the Doctor should have a steampunky gothic vibe.

Uncanny to find this irascible aside about review criticism in William Hazlitt's Lectures on the Elizabethan Age: now "we contrive even to read by proxy". Seems like he foresees (in 1820!) our worries about the age of AI when he links "the Millennium of criticism" with "the euthanasia of thought".

“We have lost the art of reading, or the privilege of writing,
voluminously, since the days of Addison. Learning no longer
weaves the interminable page with patient drudgery, nor ignorance
pores over it with implicit faith. As authors multiply in number,
books diminish in size; we cannot now, as formerly, swallow libraries
whole in a single folio: solid quarto has given place to slender
duodecimo, and the dingy letter-press contracts its dimensions, and
retreats before the white, unsullied, faultless margin. Modern authorship is become a species of stenography: we contrive even to read by proxy. We skim the cream of prose without any trouble; we get
at the quintessence of poetry without loss of time. The staple
commodity, the coarse, heavy, dirty, unwieldy bullion of books is
driven out of the market of learning, and the intercourse of the
literary world is carried on, and the credit of the great capitalists
sustained by the flimsy circulating medium of magazines and reviews.
Those who are chiefly concerned in catering for the taste of others,
and serving up critical opinions in a compendious, elegant, and
portable form, are not forgetful of themselves: they are not scrupulously solicitous, idly inquisitive about[ “the real merits, the bona fide contents of the works they are deputed to appraise and value, any
more than the reading public who employ them. They look no
farther for the contents of the work than the title page, and pronounce
a peremptory decision on its merits or defects by a glance at the name
and party of the writer. This state of polite letters seems to admit
of improvement in only one respect, which is to go a step further,
and write for the amusement and edification of the world, accounts of
works that were never either written or read at all, and to cry up or
abuse the authors by name, although they have no existence but in the
critic’s invention. This would save a great deal of labour in vain:
anonymous critics might pounce upon the defenceless …