Serious noticing is fundamental to the work of significant writers; it is how they ‘save life from itself’, James Wood maintains, in the essay that gives his new collection its title and foremost emphasis. But the phrase has a dual reference, also denoting what Wood would say he does himself in much, perhaps most of his own writing: reviews, not of the ephemeral kind aptly called ‘notices’ but relatively long, considered critical pieces better designated ‘essays’. His subtitle makes the claim without hesitation, and it is not irrelevant that it echoes one of the most distinguished examples of the genre, T. S. Eliot’s Selected Essays, from 1932. It is easy to make too much of this sign of affiliation, but equally to overlook it, in a writer for whom titles have always been important. Wood joined the Guardian in 1992—aged twenty-seven—in the role of lead literary reviewer with the grand public designation of Chief Literary Critic. A quarter-century later, after a spell as Senior Editor at the New Republic, during the reign of Leon Wieseltier, he divides his working time between the New Yorker and Harvard, where his academic style is Professor of the Practice of Literary Criticism. These assorted authority-claims are matched in the design of Serious Noticing, which is more than just his fifth collection of reviews and other occasional texts. In one light it is actually less than that: twenty-two of its twenty-nine pieces, more than two-thirds, have already been reprinted in earlier volumes. But in another light, this is not the short measure it might seem. Spanning the twenty years from his leaving the Guardian in 1995, with very few blank years on the calendar, the book is in effect a super-selection: The Best of . . . perhaps, or Wood on Wood, complete with an introductory account of his formation and general understanding of the practice of criticism. The inclusion of two confessional texts, one meditating on the condition Wood calls ‘homelooseness’, the other on his ‘becoming’ his parents, relays a notable feature of the essays, amplifying the signs of critical personality as well as—or simply as?—a position.

In the practice itself, as evidenced here, what is immediately striking is its spread. The earliest work discussed comes from the early seventeenth century, the most recent from 2015 (Cervantes and Erpenbeck respectively). English-language originals, most of them from the us, make up the greater part of the reading, but there are also translations from seven other European languages (and eight countries: Albania, Austria, former Czechoslovakia, Germany, Hungary, Italy, Russia, Spain). The works discussed at length are joined by at least as many more, familiar or not, receiving anything from a passing mention to several paragraphs of commentary. The emphasis of Wood’s critical treatment is variable too, ranging from stylistic analysis, as in a sustained argument concerning Melville’s ‘atheistic’ (or ‘polytheistic’) pursuit of metaphor or Austen’s innovation in the representation of inwardness, to the polemical genre study on ‘hysterical realism’, from ‘reviews’ in more common acceptations of the term to autonomous texts. Heading all this, in an unexpected token of his personal history and interests in music (he was a boy chorister, learned piano and trumpet at school, and taught himself rock drumming), is a homage to The Who’s legendary drummer, Keith Moon.

The constant throughout these essays is Wood’s insistence on judgement, the evaluations he regards as the defining work of the critic. He has a notable capacity for articulate enthusiasm and a withering tongue to balance it. Here he is in full affirmative flow, celebrating the comedy of a favourite novelist:

Saul Bellow is probably the greatest writer of American prose of the twentieth century—where greatest means most abundant, various, precise, rich, lyrical . . . The august raciness, the Melvillean enormities and cascades . . . the Joycean wit, the lancing similes with their sharp American nibs . . . the happy rolling freedom of the daring uninsured sentences, the prose absolutely ripe with inheritance, bursting with the memories of Shakespeare and Lawrence, yet prepared for modern emergencies, the Argus eye for detail, and controlling all this, the firm metaphysical intelligence—all this is now thought of as Bellow’s, as ‘Bellovian’.

And here he is, in 2009, on the ‘cinema-speak’ of ‘America’s best-known postmodern novelist’: ‘While Auster clearly shares some of [postmodernism’s] interest in mediation and borrowedness—hence, his cinematic plots and rather bogus dialogue—he does nothing with cliché except use it.’

The ebullience of judgement is overwhelming in that eulogy to Bellow, no less so the high-troping prose, and even Auster’s literary death sentence is given a witty turn: Wood is an ostentatiously writerly critic, one who cultivates metaphor not as mere embellishment but as his essential procedure (he is a novelist as well as a critic). Elsewhere, in a book entitled with some finality How Fiction Works, he has set down his understanding of this commitment by way of a contrast with his ‘two favourite twentieth-century critics of the novel’. Viktor Shklovsky and Roland Barthes were ‘great’, he maintains, ‘because, being formalists, they thought like writers: they attended to style, to words, to form, to metaphor and imagery.’ However, both ‘thought like writers alienated from creative instinct, and were drawn, like larcenous bankers, to raid again and again the very source that sustained them—literary style.’ Wood’s reasoning at this juncture turns opaque—as it often does in such generalizing passages—but his point of arrival is unambiguous. Concerned with basic theoretical questions but without forgetting general audiences—Woolf’s ‘common reader’—he ‘asks a critic’s questions and offers a writer’s answers’.

Wood’s ideal critic is ‘a triple thinker’ (a phrase borrowed from Edmund Wilson, who took it from Flaubert): a writer, talking about fiction ‘as writers speak about their craft’; a journalist, writing ‘with verve and appeal, for a common reader’; a ‘scholar’ open to two-way traffic in and out of the academy—and the most important of these identities, not fully captured in Wood’s light reference to ‘craft’, is the first. For his culminating claim is that any critical practice is an attempt to encourage in the reader an experience of the object corresponding to the critic’s prior experience of it, a ‘sameness’ of disposition in relation to the work in question. Thus, criticism is in its inmost constitution a practice of metaphor, and in the unique case of literary criticism, which shares the medium of its object, is itself always already writing. ‘So we perform’, Wood concludes.