Written by Dignan
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Topics: Harry Potter, Books

Monday, 13 August 2007

image for Harold Bloom Melts Down in Front of Bewildered Harry Potter Crowd

According to witnesses, prominent literary and cultural critic Harold Bloom "snapped like a dry branch," in front of a New York bookstore, where legions of Harry Potter fans have been queueing up to purchase the latest Potter novel, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows.

"It's crap! It's fucking crap! It's double fucking crap!" He ranted at the assembly of overtly nerdy adults and blank-faced children - many wearing faux dark-rimmed glasses and wizard hats - who seemed more perplexed by Bloom's sub-references than intimidated by his harangue.

"What's a Northrop Frye?" one school-aged boy with an "I Heart Hogwarts" t-shirt asked his mother.

"I don't know," she responded. "Maybe some kind of breakfast special?"

The 900-pound gorilla of literary criticism, Bloom is the Sterling Professor for the Humanities at Yale University and Berg Professor of English and American Literature at New York University. He is also a leading "bardologist" who has painstakingly analyzed the works of William Shakespeare, and has gone so far as to insist that Shakespeare "invented" humanity.

"What has [Potter author] JK Rowling invented? Broom fetishism? Fixation on some asinine delineation between normal people and these bullshit magical types? And you all pretend this is new?"

Bloom then spread the fingers on his right hand and began counting. "There should only be four contemporary authors on the shelves in that whole fucking store! Fucking [Cormac] McCarthy, fucking [Don] DeLillo, fucking [Thomas] Pynchon, and fucking [Philip] Roth!"

He then shook his closed fist at the hapless Barnes and Noble security guard who tried to placate him with a Grove Centenary Edition Samuel Beckett boxed set. Brushing the offer aside, Bloom cupped his genitals through his corduroy pants with both hands, and shouted, "I've got your Muggles right here!"

A minute later, Bloom reeled toward the curb, arms stretched overhead in total capitulation. He then propped himself against a parking meter and vomited. Hunched and wiping a smear of drool from his mouth, he hissed: "I quit. I surrender. You fucking cunts don't want authentic imaginative vision, then you don't get it! Spend your weekend soaking up that fucking derivative pabulum. Go ahead, just dumb yourselves right on down. Why hasn't anyone read The Flight to Lucifer? You . . . you . . . literary lemmings!"

Bloom then smiled slightly, taking a touch of pleasure in his alliterative moment before a pair of police officers gently led him to a waiting ambulance.

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The story above is a satire or parody. It is entirely fictitious.

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