I cannot think of a writer I dislike more than William Butler Yeats; mind you, I’m sure such an author exists – the literary world would be a sad place indeed if the most unlikeable creature it could offer was WBY – but I can’t think of one right now. Aside from being a pompous ass, Edith Wharton said he was ‘fluffy and loveable’ – which is not only no recommendation, but is, in fact, the kiss of death.1 My apologies, of course, to his fans. I have nothing to say against (or for or about) his poetry – indeed, may it achieve such immortality as it deserves. However… oh, forget it.
- The Wharton is from A Backwards Glance – or at least I think it is; it may, in fact, not be from Wharton at all, but from someone I was reading at the same time. I just remember it referred to Yeats and was more apt than anything I could make up myself. If my imprecision makes you weep, I will try to find a more accurate citation, but it could take a very long time indeed.