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'Though stimulated by her patronage - Gardner was one of the first to see Loeffler not only as a virtuoso but as the composer he wished to be and increasingly today is regarded as - Loeffler grew to feel at one point distinctly imposed upon by Gardner, who seemed to him possessive and only too willing to "show him off" in Ralph Locke's words, as "a kind of in-house virtuoso" in the Gardner music room, all of this, or (sic) course, quite classic behavior on the part of humble but artful, trustworthy but vain, kind but cruel and rampagingly dominant Isabella!'
Yikes, I thought, somebody messed up. Perhaps the editor forgot to edit and the reviewer forgot to read? Several weeks later I heard an interview with the author on NPR and listened intently, waiting for someone to ask the author about this horrid, florid style, and was shocked that neither correspondent nor callers ever mentioned it! Since that episode I've saved the reviews for books I intend to read so I can compare my reading experience with that of critical reviewers, and I have been shocked (shocked!) at the disrelation -- not just once but many times.
Enter B.R. Myers, who takes on the literary establishment with this delightful, accessible and pithy critique, starting with a preface about the work's beginning as an Atlantic Monthly article, continuing with chapters devoted to critical darlings Annie Proulx, Don DeLillo, David Guterson, Paul Auster and Cormac McCarthy, and ending with an epilogue on the response of critics to his reproaches, a humorous set of rules for the Serious Writer, copious endnotes and a bibliography. Myers states his premise early on -- "some of the most acclaimed contemporary prose is the product of mediocre writers availing themselves of trendy stylistic gimmicks" -- then goes on to cite passages used as examples of brilliance by critics, analyzing their many flaws by calling attention to unimaginative content, repetitive phrasing, tedious structure and glacial pacing; he contrasts these excerpts with selections by Woolf, Nabokov and Balzac, among others. Perhaps even more scathing are his strikes against literary critics (contrasted several times with the common folk at Amazon.com) who not only praise style over substance, but who lavish praise without explanation, dismiss as philistine anyone who doesn't agree with them, and look down their noses at genre fiction -- the current refuge of story and character in American literature. Most telling is the epilogue, where Myers shows how prickly critics use straw-man arguments and ad hominem attacks to dismiss his position.
I've always been an eclectic reader, finding satisfaction and insight in the classics, genre fiction and nonfiction. But I throw my hands up in despair at the tripe that passes for literature with a capital 'L' these days and, when so many readers have access to almost any book imaginable, I'm angry at the editors, publishers and critics who have enabled this descent into unreadable exercises in style. Talk about codependent relationships! I'll take James Michener and Jane Austen over David Mamet or Don DeLillo any day of the week, any week of the year. Myers uses clear writing (imagine!) and lots of examples to show that, indeed, you are not crazy! The garbage critics have been telling you is genius is really just .... garbage.
I think there are fine contemporary writers out there -- Richard Russo, Jane Smiley, Christopher Buckley come quickly to mind -- authors who recognize that style services, rather than obviates, plot and character. But somewhere in the 20th century the arts got hijacked by an elitist group that thinks anything that can be understood by the hoi polloi must not qualify as art; that any painting or novel that is popular must be dismissed; that style triumphs over substance and that obscurity and novelty pass for style. I don't know how to defeat hateful, boorish snobbery, but I think that the great unwashed masses sharing opinions in forums like Amazon.com is a great way to begin.
Bless you, Mr. Myers, for taking on this naked emperor. Perhaps you might tackle the art and music world next?
Having read the essay only and being only truly familiar with Delillo and Auster (who both run hot and cold, IMO), I think Myers has a few good points and some bad points.
But I think some of the reviews here are mistaking "difficult" writing with "bad" writing, something I don't think Myers does. In fact, he praises Joyce, Woolf, and other writers who, at their most challenging, are far more difficult to read than Delillo, Auster, or (I'd wager) any of these others. Myers isn't celebrating anti-intellectualism as some here seem to think he is. His argument is with sloppy writers, not difficulty.