I had intended to start with the old gag that you wait ages for a novel about Henry James, then along come four – all at once. But David Lodge got there before me, which is partly typical of the wry, self-deprecating humour that makes The Year of Henry James such a terrific read.

What is great, or even enjoyable, in Henry James has largely passed me by. Back me into a corner with a copy of The Princess Casamassima and I will mumble, ‘When is something going to happen?’; show me The Golden Bowl and you see a grown man weep.

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