Eugene David ...The One-Minute Pundit |
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Sunday, February 22, 2004
Here is why serious fiction doesn't matter much these days: first off, who has the time for it? Second, enough people write for their navels. Third, when was the last time you could quote a memorable fiction line that wasn't embarrassing? Fourth, The New Yorker helped kill it with all its short stories about Walter Mittys (he started there) and dissolute families. Fifth (and this is hardly news), the people who write serious fiction simply don't want to write to entertain. Hard-core Christians and World War II buffs aside, who wants to spend a night curled up with a bottle of castor oil? Sixth, news hacks rave so much fiction you can't tell it apart anyway.
And since there's been a slight tiff these last few days about attributing links, I will confess I use ArtsJournal.com and IWant Media.com a lot. But then PROF uses Buzz T. Newhouse and Mr. Bleat a lot, and Buzz uses his dear friend HOWARD STERN a lot. (And worse, there are no links. Buzz! I'll say it again: Give that guy a blog!)
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