The Sept. 30 issue of The New Yorker (that contained the review of Painted Shadow) also contains an extensive article about Harold Bloom. It appears similar to this review: portraying the world of Bloom according to Bloom, and noting his apparent declining influence. Though I am unsure if one can predict the influence of a "man of letters" in his or her lifetime, or even within one or two subsequent generations, it appears that Bloom in his inimitable way does focus attention upon literature. Thus, I too would suggest, as I think Rick does, that we afford Bloom some leeway in his definitions of and attempts at greatness. Perhaps he is our contemporary Sainte-Beuve?