The recent decreased frequency of TfH blogging has decreased my life satisfaction.
And yours too, I’m sure.
Onwards.
I haven’t read a single poor review of Americanah, which is curious. Usually there’s some kind of ick or wiggity for a critic to say to distinguish herself from other critics. What’s the point of criticism if you can’t indulge in a small sling of mud? To feel superior, if only for a second, to the slingee?
When I was in college, a young punk complained, about One Hundred Years of Solitude, “Why do we have to talk about politics? It’s ruining the aesthetics of the novel!”
And my professor–still perhaps my favorite professor of all–responded, “How come no one ever complains that the aesthetics are ruining a good political novel?”
You put your politics in my novel, Lydia Millet.
I know that the apocalypse is happening at every minute all the time. But is that any reason to ruin a perfectly lovely reverse roman-a-clef?
Look! That book cover is PURTY. Didn’t that book get reviewed in the Times this weekend?
Should I buy it?
I only sold a few widgets at the widgetmart this weekend. I want the book! But how will I know my widget dollars are going where I want them to go?
Thinker for Hire!
Should I buy this book?!?!?
