ABSTRACT
Arnold Wesker is sensitive to attack, and admits that one adverse criticism hurts him more than many praises can cheer him. There is nothing odd about this; probably most writers are the same. But there is something odd, or at least unusual, in the way that Wesker responds to hurt and dismissal. Wesker would agree that he lacks one of the qualities almost essential for success in the English literary scene, self-mockery. He certainly has plenty to feel pleased with himself about. If parochial British critics sneer and say that Wesker needs rehabilitating, he can reflect on the enormous success he has had abroad. Wesker, like his characters, remains defiant, hovering behind some of his plot structures. He wonders if he is paranoid, brooding over remarks like those of the critic in The Guardian who reviewed his collection of short stories in 1971 with a piece beginning.
