From Byron Pushkin might have learned and honed his own keenly observant irony which, however, especially in Byron and his Don Juan, keeps on piling lines on lines of never-ending stabbing, biting, yet facile commentaries that, with their sheer exhibitionist and tangential mass, are quickly choking and overwhelming the poem itself along with its main action. For one is legally and aesthetically allowed to pile only so many mountains of irony before becoming quickly as much tedious as outright annoying, soon reminding you of those spoiled golden youth brats who think that the pinnacle of their exclusive manners and wisdom is to mock in a “proper Oxford style” everyone else at their parents’ cocktail party. Or, in still more advanced, never timely checked form, this attitude to people and life is also way too much reminiscent of a certain type of Germanic unhappily aged women the chief, if not only activity of their soul is incessant gossip, and this incessant putting-down of all and everyone, hardly redeemed by anything else, only grows and eventually kills any kindness that might have once be a guest of their hearts.
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