Unicorns — Text and Context

The Critic as Impressionist

Huneker’s method is less systematic analysis than vivid impression. He writes of Paris resembling Chicago, or Vienna a second Philadelphia, 'depending on the colour of your mood.' This subjective stance allows him to treat his subjects as occasions for personal reflection rather than definitive judgments. In the chapter on Henry James, he does not summarize plots but instead circles around James’s late style, noting its 'modulations' and 'sidelong' approach to character. The essay on Paul Cézanne similarly avoids technical art criticism, instead evoking the painter’s struggle with form through metaphor: 'He is a fribble, a sonsy faddle, whose conceits veer with the breeze like a creaking weather-vane.' The borrowed voice of a fictional 1723 pamphlet adds a layer of ironic distance, a tactic Huneker uses throughout to keep his own opinions provisional.

Irishness and the Artist’s Soul

A recurring thread is Huneker’s fascination with Irish identity and its expression in literature. He devotes several pages to Joyce, but also invokes Synge, Yeats, Lady Gregory, and George Moore, asking 'What is the Celtic character?' His answer is deliberately evasive: the Irishman is 'nearer to the Sarmatian than the continental Celt,' and 'dissatisfied no matter under which king.' The portrait of Stephen Dedalus’s father—a list of attributes from 'medical student' to 'praiser of his own past'—is quoted approvingly as 'well-nigh perfect.' Huneker relishes the Rabelaisian speech he finds in Irish writers, claiming that 'not even the Elizabethans so joyed in “green” words.' This interest in national temperament colors his readings of other artists, as when he compares Joyce’s spiritual oscillations to Huysmans’.

Pace and the Aphoristic Turn

The rhythm of Huneker’s prose is marked by sudden accelerations and digressions. A paragraph may begin with a straightforward observation—'We have all had this experience'—then veer into a list of contradictory witnesses or a mock-quotation from a rare pamphlet. The effect is conversational but never slack; each sentence seems to earn its place through wit or surprise. In the essay on Brahms, titled 'Brahmsody,' the pace mimics the composer’s own shifts between lyricism and intellectual density. Huneker’s sentences often end with a snap: 'A very cockatoo in his perched-up vanity and prodigious clatter.' This aphoristic tendency gives the collection a mosaic quality, where each essay feels like a series of polished fragments rather than a continuous argument. Readers should expect to pause and reread, not because the prose is obscure, but because it rewards attention to its turns.

Unicorns rewards a patient, nonlinear reading. Huneker’s essays are best approached as a series of provocations rather than settled judgments. His habit of quoting invented or obscure sources—like the 'Velvet Cactus' pamphlet—invites skepticism about his own authority, a gesture that aligns with his preference for 'whim' over system. Readers familiar with the artists discussed will find fresh angles; those new to them will encounter vivid introductions, though not always balanced ones. The collection’s unity lies in its voice: a cultivated, restless intelligence that treats criticism as an art form in its own right.

Years ago, Huneker's Unicorns taught me that criticism is a kind of love—wandering, curious, never quite finished. That same unhurried spirit seems to linger in The Hills and the Vale — Edition Insights, as if it were a quiet companion leafing through the margins of his favorite essays. They sit together well, like old friends sharing a shaded bench. Not quite one story, but the same afternoon light.