Eugene David
...The One-Minute Pundit

Saturday, January 18, 2003


The latest Atlantic Monthly has a shrewd review by the novelist Thomas Mallon of two examples of the conundrum modern fiction is in: The Time of Our Singing by Richard Powers (a "critically acclaimed" author I'd never heard of before), filled with "a kind of automatic junk writing":

When is the zero of change, the spot in time when time begins? Not the big bang, or even the little one. Not when you learn to count your first tune [?]. Not that first now that twists back on itself. All moments start from the one when you see how they all must end.

and the cutesy-pie Updike clone Nicholson Baker, who writes in A Box of Matches about nothing. Books like these, with their fancy language and their disconnection to life, explain why Tom Wolfe mistakenly felt news hacks could solve fiction's ills. If the walking dead keep disgorging novels, what's the hope for literature? (It's no accident this same magazine ran that tantrum about Don DeLillo & Co.)

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