Here's "Wonder Bread" a little literary sideswipe that's sure to generate writerly controversy from here to there...
"To achieve this miracle, certain writers produce Brooklyn Books of Wonder. Take mawkish self-indulgence, add a heavy dollop of creamy nostalgia, season with magic realism, stir in a complacency of faith, and you’ve got wondrousness. The only thing that’s more wondrous than the BBoW narratives themselves is the vanity of the authors who deliver their epistles from Fort Greene with mock-naïve astonishment, as if saying: “I can’t really believe I’m writing this. And it’s such an honor that you’re reading it.” Actually, they’re as vain and mercenary as anyone else, but they mask these less endearing traits under the smiley façade of an illusory Eden they’ve recreated in the low-rise borough across the water from corrupt Manhattan."
http://www.theamericanscholar.org/au07/wonder-bukiet.html
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4 comments:
Wow. Um. And people got mad at me for criticising weird acknowledgments.
I think it would behoove us all to follow the link that Mr. X has provided. I'd love to know what people think.
I'm not sure what the author's intent is. Is it to bag on a bunch of successful writers? I don't know what he wants otherwise. He sounds a bit like one of my coworkers who doesn't want to read about murders, or abortion, or thievery, or illicit passions - because, god, hasn't that been done? Plato, right?
The drag is that I agree with him a lot, and disagree with him a lot. Sebold's a hack, and her Lovely Bones weren't? Yup. Catcher in the Rye was dumb? Nope. Eggers is swarmy and his Staggering Work wasn't? Yup. Lethem's great, and he should disinherit his followers? Ok.
The guy is so allover the map, dissing here, praising there, I'm just not finding the point. He wants inner depth, characters with soul. Dang, isn't that what we're trying to provide?
I dunno. What do you think?
i think he comes across as a pisher meself. as one who actually read mark helprin's "a winter's tale" way back in 1988, i found its descriptions of a neo early 20th century new york boner-inducing but the story flaccid (sorry for the metaphors. i'm half-horny.)
the author's gripe seems that he desires gritty non-wondrous city fiction ala selby. he wants chock full o' blood on 42nd street after midnight with wisps of urine-tinged steam hanging over the heads of lost deadbeats like smokey halos as the maw of the urban jungle swallows the ashes of their tortured souls...i think.
Doesn't Eggers live in San Francisco?
Yes. But he still writes BBOW's because, um, just because. It's a sensibility thing.
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