Feeling low and everything gets to me. For instance, I looked at some reviews of a library book I’m reading and now I’m fretful and morose. I know the book has faults; you can like a book and still know it has faults. But the reviews belabor it for reasons I find arbitrary, even cockeyed.
All right, the book gives the address of a building that shows up just once in the hero’s story (by hero I mean the man the biography’s about). But I don’t think that’s a big deal. Nor, as alleged, does the book load up on detail about the hero’s many boyhood homes—I counted eight sentences scattered over 10 pages, which seems reasonable for a family that moved around a lot. The same reviewer says the author doesn’t know super-much about George Balanchine, whose work the book’s subject came to adore. But we aren’t told what’s so wrong or inadequate about the biography’s treatment of Balanchine and his career. Another reviewer asserts that the book says nothing serious about how the hero’s art resembles the renowned choreographer’s, nothing about their shared clarity and economy, their use of space. But from the book: “his clarity and concision—the witty brevity of his writing, the economy of his line, his eloquent use of negative space, his beautifully balanced compositions—harmonize with the Balanchinian aesthetic.” That’s on pages 334–35, found in the index under “Balanchine, George,” subhead “influence of.”
The review that’s so upset about a street address ran in The New York Times, specifically the Book Review section. The review that fumbled the Balanchine question ran in The Wall Street Journal. Reading lower in the hierarchy, I come across a Chicago literary site. The review there says the author wanted to keep his subject as his personal domain, so he decided that the hero’s art can’t be classified. The review gives no evidence for the alleged motive. For my part I think the hero’s art can’t be classified, and so does the reviewer for The Wall Street Journal. She also thinks the biographer keeps trying to pin down the hero’s character because he finds the artwork so disturbing; no evidence given. Meanwhile, the fellow at the Times wants to know why the book doesn’t capitalize the in The New Yorker. The book says the New Yorker and it really should say The New Yorker.
Seven years the guy spent. It makes me depressed to think that years of effort can lead to this spurt of randomness disguised as appraisal. That’s the end of the author’s road: a clearing with a giant slot machine whose lever he must pull, and then out belches whatever—in this author’s case, a spray of gravel and old peanut shells. That stuff hurts and he has to live with it. No one wants to hear him talk about pages 334–35 as his nose starts getting pink. But I’ll talk about pages 334–35 and I’ll recommend his book: Born to Be Posthumous: The Eccentric Life and Mysterious Genius of Edward Gorey by Mark Dery. Nothing more about the three reviewers; they’ll go unnamed.