Davis' approach: quote a difficult and uninteresting piece of literature, then make some obvious or indecipherable point about it at great and extremely tedious length. For instance he quotes a long and tedious poem by Hardy about a chap finding himself jilted. He suggest there is something really special about the last line of the first stanza 'You did not come' being separated by a space from the first line of second stanza 'You love me not'. It supposedly creates a 'holding ground' for the reader to have some great thoughts on the subject. I wasn't having them, apart from perhaps, 'I'd be better of reading Tolstoy or George Eliot about these matters than Hardy or Davis, great authors should give me some great thoughts rather than expect me to have them...'
And so it goes throughout the book. Davis makes a point, I don't get it, or it seems banal, or it seems absurd, or it seems very laboured. Davis suggest there is a crisis in the humanities. Yes there is, and it's exemplified by this book. For me the crisis pans out in finding it difficult to find something interesting to read because there are so many critics & professors, like Davis, leading me down the garden path into a desert.