Critic.

I am very critical when it comes to the use of imagery in prose. For me, it conjures up the vision of an author examining himself in a mirror—if not primping, then tugging at snatches of fabric to ensure that every inch hangs just right. What he doesn’t realize is that as soon as he turns from his carefully polished reflection, the clothing slides from its immaculate arrangement and settles back into the unflattering grooves of an imperfect body.
(Of course, I would use imagery myself to describe the way I feel about this phenomenon.)

I bring this up because I can’t tell whether I’m becoming more skilled at discerning a text’s quality or simply becoming more critical, like an old woman who examines a grandchild with narrowed eyes, ignoring his youthful radiance to wipe a few untoward crumbs from his lips. There is perfection in imperfection. Its artful presentation is another story.