The more negative reviews I read of books, the more I respect the competent reviewers who put aside ego and approach a work with balance.

Almost anyone can rip a work to shreds. It isn't difficult. It might make your teeth sound sharp. Then again, it might make you sound like a fool high on yourself. Your teeth might sound so sharp that they chew up your brain through your tongue.

People who write bitter reviews of expressive works tend to believe that pointing out flaws deftly proves that the work is worthless. They consider it self-evident that calling a trait an error makes it an error, and that errors invalidate a work. If you don't enjoy something, you count off 5 kvetches on your fingers, make them sound legit, and stride off with a swelling in your chest that says you know your stuff.

That's a shitty way to review. It's lazy. It's overly subjective. And underneath, it's more concerned about self-image and reputation than it is about understanding the work or providing a solid recommendation to others.

When was the last time you witnessed this proud kind of reviewer considering the merits and pitfalls around a certain feature, balancing what works and doesn't work about it, wondering what the author intended here, what the alternatives might have been, what it brings to the table even if it isn't perfect? You don't see this, because the bitter reviewers aren't thinking like this. They're out to show off that they know better than a famous writer. It's possible that they do, of course, of course, but if they take an enduring classic and show no sign of having appreciated anything that was unique or réussi about it, then their review, to me, is mostly a negative review of their own critical faculties.