Benjamin (pronounced BEN-ya-mean) is one of those writers you just can't help loving in a sort of "oh poor Walter" way. His longing for an "aura" even as it seems to be dissolving before his very eyes is so likable and so tragic that you just want to give the guy a hug.

Certainly his life's tragedy leans over the edge of the reader's shoulder and one really can't separate the ideas in these essays from the idea of Walter Benjamin: a guy who's been dealt none of the right cards, can't figure himself to be an employee, who just wants to be left alone to read great books, write great essays, and to lead the life of an homme de lettres, and of course, the final tragedy of his bad luck, when he's off by a single day. I can relate to his frustrations, as well as to the seeming impossibility of leading the life he wanted.

Poor, poor Benjamin.