Geezer. Due to the fact that he writes books so thick that no sane person would read them, he can write about axe murderers and things and still get classed as a classic author, ie. old dead bloke/bird who wrote a load of boring drivel about handkerchiefs and gavottes and unrequited love (q.v. Jane Austen). At least Henry James had an excuse for writing excruciatingly bad books. Having lost a large proportion of his genitals in a bizarre horse-related accident (q.v. Catherine the Great) he must have needed to vent his spleen on the world somehow. We can therefore forgive him such atrocities as Daisy Miller, which happens to be one of the most paradoxical books ever. Even though it's only 74 pages long or so, IT IS AS BORING AS FUCK. I had to FORCE MYSELF to get through it. Avoid at all costs. Not so much "dull but true" as "dull but incredibly useful to know".