James is by far one of the most overrated writers in the English language. Aside from the tiresome obfuscation and baroque stylization in the prose, the earnestness with which these characters rehearse the banal and bourgeois premise of the novel strains credulity. I've heard people discuss terminal illness with more irony and frivolity than these overwrought sentimentalists discuss ad nauseam the deeply serious matter of Chad and Strether being (egad) fond of Paris. ( )

My reaction to this novel was one mostly of frustration. Not for the “difficulty” of James’ style, I’m not afraid of difficulty, but for what small matter it went in service to here. I finally realized that, unlike all the other novels, stylistically difficult or not (including other works by James) that I’ve found myself truly drawn to, called by, immersed in, this novel seemed to me to have no cosmological dimension, and in fact, not even any still-resonant (to me) social dimension– and what else is the defining subject of this ample form? I felt The Ambassadors was entirely constructed to show off its protagonist, who failed to fascinate me anything like as much as he obviously did James. So the experience of reading this dilatory work depended utterly on whether or not you found Strether’s personal dilemma sympathetic or consequential. I did not.

Even James’ technique, brilliant and revolutionary as it was, of centering a narrative intimately close to but not entirely inside a particular consciousness was, it seemed to me, antithetical to the invocation of any larger dimensions of reality, at least in this case. And (reading James’ Preface, included in this edition, very helpful) his emphasis on the supremacy of the artist’s control in every respect left no room for negative capability, which is an experience of the cosmological dimension as the source of inspiration. So how could his work not feel airless to me in some way, when he rules out the most fertile plain of discovery?

Whenever you dismiss something acclaimed a masterwork and a favorite of the author himself, by a writer as skilled as James, you are probably risking your own credibility as a good reader. But a good reader is allowed personal taste. We are not allowed to call it more than that, however. Or at least I won’t. (I was however, bolstered by reading the essays in this great edition - and by a couple of sharp quotes about James that I think are part of the experience of reading him. "This book was not quite worth the extraordinary trouble of reading it," said Arnold Bennett. "He often chewed more than he bit off," said one of his friends.
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i feel sentimental education for Strether will be incomplete until he learns that Maria Gostrey is best for him. But, from where did Maria come, i wonder. ( )