I am reading Greeblatt’s The Swerve, a delightfully bookish book, and broke out into a giggle fit when I came across this passage today:

On the death of Petrarch on July 19, 1374, the grieving Salutati had declared that Petrarch was a greater prose writer than Cicero and a greater poet than Virgil. By the 1390s, this praise seemed to Poggio and Niccoli ridiculous, and they pressed Salutati to repudiate it. In all the intervening centuries, no one, they argued, had bettered the great classic writers in stylistic perfection. It was impossible. Since ancient times all there had been in their view, was a long, tragic history of stylistic corruption and loss. Indifferent or ignorant, even supposedly well-educated medieval writers had forgotten how to form sentences correctly, in the proper manner of the masters of classical Latin, or to use words with elegance, accuracy, and precision with which they had once been wielded.

Puts my grousing about Kimball’s article the other day into perspective, doesn’t it?

Seems like everyone’s a critic and in no time is the literature ever as good as it used to be. Something to keep in mind as many people commented on the Kimball article post, there is no way of knowing the future and what literature will come to be seen as representing our time and culture, what books being published now will be read in 100 years or more. And really, does it matter if the book you are in the midst of now is one that is or isn’t read in the future as long as you are enjoying it now? After all, we don’t get extra credit points after we are dead for having read the novel that is being taught in all the high school English classes in 2112. At least I don’t think we do. Is there a heavenly reading scoreboard no one has told me about? Actually, if there were a scoreboard it would definitely be located in hell with demons scratching up marks with their nails on a chalkboard.