Should the excretory plebeians in the narrative equation be intimidated by Wood's argot?

That is, should readers of novels written since 1850 believe any of this crap?

Look, read the words: "metaphysical presence; gravely skeptical; inhabit; and thisness." Let's get to that metaphysical land, let's run there; no wait, wait, there's not there there. To paraphrase Old Sykes, "Who the hell is thisness?"

Thisness means whatever the hell Wood wants it to mean. Every supposedly significant phrase, at least those from the slightly fawning, nice review, "refers" exactly that way. The apt post-structuralist commentary would be Barthes on Tower Eiffel: mostly air, nothing really there other than what the observer believes beforehand. I'm pretty sure the only time Wolfe and Delillo agreed on anything was when they tore into Wood. The lazier Wood manages his idio(t)syncratic terms, the wider possible application to his favorites. "How Fiction Works," is an info-mercial for...Wood Products Inc. Stay tuned for the upcoming Richard Powers take on Wood as lit-force.

"Lifeness" means what? DNA? RNA? Life in London or New York City? Silly if you think about it, yes?

Ms. Shuvlevitz rightly points out the childish avoidance of clarity in Wood's use of the "high artistry," of "free indirect style." The use of this device in "Ulysses," (some Joyce scholars call it Uncle Charlie) is precisely what makes "Ulysses," self reflexive. Somebody ought to tell Wood that that authorial intrusion is not necessarily Joyce' personal voice, rather it is a created voice once removed from the more or less classic voice that describes Stephen or Poldy actions, and the other one that expresses Stephen or Poldy's thoughts/feelings: follow that. To make any identification of Joyce's "authentic voice," becomes completely ridiculous when Molly, Poldy's toes near her head, has (maybe her first) orgasm, yes. Lingual indeed.

In his praise of the vague, isn't the Hero Critic simply leaving his options open? Could it be that he's making a retro-active prescription of his own novelistic greatness? Or maybe a pre-emptive one? Praise felling good while saying nothing, sounds a lot like self-pleasuring; not so bad as far as it goes, but not at all engaged with the fundamentals of language. Or, to paraphrase another westerner: the authority of language transcends the critic's ability to understand it.