The Portrait of a Reader

In retrospect, a clue to what lay ahead occurred at the Orillia Public Library, when the helpful librarian went down to the basement stacks and brought up three books that, though long in the collection, had never been opened. Clearly, Henry James’s reputation for ornate prose had kept him unread for decades in this little Ontario town — home of Stephen Leacock, another kind of writer entirely.

I had asked for only The Portrait of a Lady, but she also handed me The Golden Bowl, in two volumes. Before she went downstairs, I had explained that as part of my undergraduate degree (Western ’65), I’d taken a “Moderns” course that James Reaney had taught and had answered exam questions on this work, but I’d never actually read it or any of James’s other novels. It was enough in those days to know the plot, memorize a few key quotes, and save my energy for writers who excited me (I blush to admit: Ernest Hemingway).

But now, to better appreciate...