Literary criticism continues to have a rough time of it this week; two months out from Canada's book reviewing brouhaha—which I've summed up elsewhere—book and review lovers south of the 49th are facing their own crisis: In the age of Twitter, are reviewers critically distant enough from writers? What's wrong with being nice? What would a “good” negative review even look like? What's the meaning of a critic's “enthusiasm” anyhow, and isn't literary criticism ideally more about discourse than it is about snarling debate? Can't we just leave criticism to science?
Speaking of reviews: Hazlitt contribtor Emily Schultz's The Blondes has been getting some good ones. Carrie Snyder calls it a “wash-and-wear cut” in the Globe, and NOW Magazine's Susan G. Cole thinks Emily's got big time style. When asked about the violent world of rabid, dangerous beauty depicted in occasionally very graphic scenes in the book, Emily said “I guess I did enjoy writing them. Perhaps a little too much.”
Apparently “it takes no time and very little talent” to steal rare/antiquarian books, once you're on the inside.
Michael Ondaatje's The Cat's Table was recently nominated for the the Dayton Literary Peace prize. Meanwhile, I'm wondering about the delay in announcing this year's Scotiabank Giller shortlist. Bet Gary Shteyngart knows what's up. Remember that time David Mitchell was mobbed by fans in Shanghai? Will that happen to Alistair MacLeod when the Vancouver Writer's Festival releases his newest short story as a chap book?
Moving is the worst, especially for bibliophiles. Mark Medley had to put his library on a diet and Kristopher Jansman narrowed his library down to a mere 700 lbs of books. I'm never moving again. I mean, just look at all the new beauties coming to bookstores this fall.
Is it just me, or is The New Yorker's culture desk biting Ryeberg's style? If you're new to Ryeberg, I'd recommend starting with this. Or maybe this. And if you love Honey Boo Boo Child, then you need to read Lynn Crosbie's Ryeberg essay on the charming beauty tw(/qu)een. And then maybe double back here for her—Lynn's, not Honey Boo Boo's—piece of Tabloid Fiction.
And, of course: long live the em-dash.
