My Dog is Chelsea

First things first. I now have one of these (!):

And it is wonderful. I’m kind of obsessed with it, actually. It’s pretty much the sleekest, fastest, prettiest machine I’ve ever laid eyes on.

Anyway! So there’s a book review in the latest issue of the New Yorker that really got my goat. It’s James Wood’s scathing critique of Paul Auster’s latest novel, Invisible, and of his entire body of work, which, according to Mr. Wood, is an endless stream of unimaginative novels that uses the same predictable plot twists and forced dialogue. I’m not arguing with Wood’s conclusion — I’ve only ever read one of Auster’s novels, The Brooklyn Follies, which was as quick and easy to read and as it was to forget. Nonetheless:

1. Is it really necessary to reveal the entire structure and plot of a novel when you review it? Not that I have any intention of reading Invisible, or any of the other books mentioned, but if I ever did there certainly would be no reason to now.
2. At some point, a book reviewer has to make an executive decision: “Do I want to sound like a cranky old windbag, or not?” James Wood may detest Paul Auster’s fiction, but he sure has read a LOT of it. If he can’t find something nice to say about his work, then perhaps he should just stop reading it.
3. Excessive name-dropping: WTF? I’m not sure I’ve ever read a review of a book in the New Yorker that doesn’t refer to about fifteen other authors. These dropped names often serve no purpose, it seems, other than to prove the reviewer’s literary cred.
4. Forgive me, but does this mean anything to you? “[Philip] Roth’s narrative games emerge naturally from his consideration of ordinary human ironies and comedies; they do not start life as allegories about the relativity of mimesis, though they may become them. [José] Saramago and Roth both assemble and disassemble their stories in ways that seem fundamentally grave. Auster, despite all the games, is the least ironic of contemporary writers.” Translation: “I have more education than you do, and Auster isn’t as talented as Roth or Saramago. Also, the cartoon you see on the next page doesn’t make any sense to me either. Just pretend you get it — everyone else does.”

If there is something that can be said in five words, the New Yorker will say it in twenty and weave in at least seven that you’ve never even heard of. It’s simultaneously humbling and infuriating.

And on that note, I think I’ll go back to ogling my beautiful new laptop…