My love of literature seems innate as I remember reading everything,especially story books and novels, meant for elders when others of my age pored over spelling books.My father has been an avid reader as well as a writer of some repute.Genetically,it did have some effects anyway.
But as a student of literature I was shocked to find that thrill and excitement of reading I got in my childhood replaced by what we call critical analysis.Seemed brilliant for sometime indeed.I myself became so unquestioning a votary of that madness on methods( of criticism,of course)that I never stopped to ask myself what a great treasure remains unexplored when we read literautre not for entertainment,but for methodical reading.We talk less of Shakespeare than of Foucault;less of Tagore than of Said;less of literature than of Philosophy.Woe to us
