Reading is fundamental, and I read books, so this should interest me, but The New Yorker‘s
reviews make almost every book seem unbearably unreadable. My wife and I
used to laugh about the “Briefly Noted” reviews, and compete about how
to see few words it took before a book became a definite no. “The third
review this week,” she might say, “I’m a NO in only eleven words. Can
you top that?” Our record, I believe, was NO in six words.

To bore you and honor her, I’ll share the first few words from some
recent reviews. All genuine, and each a certified NO for me, in the
first sentence:

• “This unusual, often dazzling blend of theology, history, and
neuroscience argues that our hyper-rational, left-brain-dominated
society has become incapable of engaging with the ‘mythos’ of
scripture…” Yeah, color me incapable.

• “Contemplating movie stars, serial killers, and masculinity, the
title poem of this incisive irreverent collection refers not to the
Bible but to a scrapbook dedicated to the actor Daniel Craig…” Wha—?

• “In a small English village at the dawn of the Age of
Enlightenment, a woman named Mary Toft gives birth to a dismembered
rabbit every few days…”

• “With an immense cast and wide-ranging erudition, this novel, the
culmination of a Hungarian master’s career, offers a sweeping view of a
contemporary moment that seems deprived of meaning…”

• “In this novel of midlife collapse, the author reprises his attack
on the ideological pretensions of contemporary Western society…”

• “The girls and women in this debut collection of stories are
monstrous: they molt, peel, fracture, decompose, murder, consume,
engulf…”

• “Examining revolutionary movements across five continents, this history emphasizes the global reach of Maoist ideology…”

(Mildly repurposed from a much longer post on my wife’s memorial blog.) itsdougholland.com ← PREVIOUS          NEXT →