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Archive for September, 2013

Chapter 1: In which an inveterate misanthropic blogger is ordered to halt his unneeded services.

Lee Siegel I wuv you. Male or Female. Human or Transient, Sentient, OmniCritical Being. You have made my life worth living again.  Just when I was getting depressed about kicking galley proofs and taking names, here, HERE you crop up and alter my melancholic, miasma of coherent blogging. I’m quite thrilled to be of the nameless masses. The man-in-the-street, the decidedly unapologetic, man without authority and bastard of the internets. (Pardon this thunderous, abject tone, one must be forgiven in this day and age of ante-whatever age is coming next nothingness) Lee Siegel I wuv you, for writing this:

http://www.newyorker.com/magazine/bios/lee_siegel/search?contributorName=Lee%20Siegel

The initial thrust of the article is to bury hatchets and then it disintegrates to name dropping and a host of other unpardonable sins. I think Siegel in his new found giddiness of discovering Happy Land or Paxil, has forgetten what most will not say. The largest portion of things being published are bad, unreadable, and therefore a monstrous waste of time. This in turn fuels the negativity of reviewing. Sure, Sure his reasons for the coterie of intellect here and there are entertaining, however a bad book unjustly, modestly and generously judged only harms. More to the point, the reviews aren’t the hatchets, the books they concern are. A prime example, for all of its degrees of facility both academic and peer-reviewed is that wunderkind of a website, the ever bravish, Bostonish, bespectacled, variety internet show http://www.themillions.com   If one is interested in trends of the literary, go there. If not, anywhere but. For there will be found all sorts of gladhanding, kidgloving and other preciosity of the nice sort. My stomach has turnt in the mentioning. But that is all fine fare, unless of course your name is B.R. Myers. Conferment of the authors of that website aside, we turn back to Lee Siegel. I hope against hope that you never write anything again.

Sincerely,

Evan Kerry

 

 

 

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It has always been the unique art of the critic, other than critiquing, to revive the forgotten. In a recent issue of the Times Literary Supplement we can see this in full effect. 

To pump the book with the magazine is stated below. This, though,is a special slab of the facade of the house of Fame. The victim this appearance is one Gerald Kersh. The fact that he pumped the pulps from his pen is especially noteworthy and probably the reason you should even bother with this, the review in the TLS, and his work.

The Link is here:

http://www.the-tls.co.uk/tls/public/article1315180.ece

First we are told what he accomplished and so forth, and then how he was forgotten. Somewhere in the middle of all of this highbrow reclamation the critic will namedrop either admirers of, or who the lost author happened to esteem. Which is grand and brilliant and every thing you can apply to it. And yet, I feel cheated by all of this. I don’t need a retelling and reconstruction of the dead. A simple blurb will suffice. The practice is tantamount to re-spoking the wheel and frankly it is old hash. The amount of labor spent on things like this is better left to sorting through the new dreck being published and telling us what to attend to.

 

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