I am ashamed to admit that I enjoy novels and films merely sensually as a cow may her cud. My analytical faculties are awakened only when a work's failure appears so abject as to strain credulity and so beg comparison. (Just now it occurs to me that my unwilingness to examine its strengths and weaknesses critically may preclude me from fairly judging any work a failure.)
In any case, my laziness secures me a pleasure that is uncomplicated and (perhaps for that reason) intense but also fleeting so that I recall little of what I've read or seen afterward. This makes it challenging to recommend the works I admire (admiration already implying much more than mere enjoyment can give rise to) with any success, since I am unable to describe them. I attempt to make up for my lack of authority by praising them in the most grandiose terms imaginable.
Although I savor these experiences unthinkingly, I'm no sybarite. I don't seek to indulge in luxurious display or description, a sanguine outlook or satisfying conclusion. On the contrary, my enjoyment is keenest when a work's "style" is hard to identify, and when its subject either is or demands of its audience a measure of suffering.
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