Call me a Philistine, but this is one of the most infantile books I have ever read.

This is a gem of a book for anyone interested in Blake. It is comprehensive, well written, and covers all aspects of his life, art, and background in an interesting way. Even if your interest in Blake is one of mere curiosity, you will get a lot out of this book. Its profuse illustrations are impressive, with 136 (yes, one-hundred-and-thirty-six) plates, mostly in colour, and many more illustrations besides. The author's technique of breaking the main chapters down into small, self-contained sections is also ideal for anyone wanting to browse. I cannot recommend this strongly enough. It is absolutely first class.

When I started to read this I was impressed by the author's limpid style: long, winding, beautifully constructed sentences, and sharp imagery. But this impression soon palled. Everything seemed to happen once removed, and in slow motion; there was no immediacy despite the use of present continuous, or perhaps because of it. The characters struck me, not as real people but highly-drawn and analysed laboratory specimens with no personality, character, or life at all. I found no real sympathy in it but much sympathetic posturing, all conventionally and tediously twenty-first century. I'm afraid I'm completely out of sympathy with authors judging the attitudes of previous generations by our own standards, mores, and lights. Perhaps this prejudices me against this author, but the exercise seems to me pointless and precious.

I became so irritated that, unusually for me, after doggedly persevering for about 200 pages, I gave it up.

Rather a mixture. Despite the impeccable detail, this story had the feeling of being set in a slightly later period, and I'm not entirely sure why. It might be the dialogue (which I sometimes found pedestrian), or perhaps the Holmesean resonances, especially the characters of the engine driver and his daughter who seemed to me straight out of Conan Doyle, or at least his era. I also found the plot a little thin, espcially the detective's ability to anticipate an outrage at a precise spot in the Crystal Palace, on the slenderest of evidence.
Nevertheless, the story had considerable charm, especially the disarmingly innocent attraction between the detective and the engine driver's daughter. This was refreshing and sensitively done. Indeed the entire book had the feel of being written many decades ago. If the author intended this, then he triumphed.
I shall certainly read more of these. The charm and unique atmosphere for me outweigh the shortcomings and perhaps, when this series gets into its stride (I intentionally read the first story first) it will strengthen further.

What a wonderful indictment of public opinion and the media which makes a business of telling people what they want to hear! I do not believe there is anything 'Victorian' about this; it is as true today as it was then. Take all the endless nonsense about Princess Diana's death, for example.
Wicher's suspicions about the murder were essentially correct, and were proved correct a few years later. But unfortunately they were socially unacceptable; so they curtailed his career and brought the entire detective service into disrepute. The unimportance of being right? Absolutely.