Book Reviews

Book Reviews

I used to write a lot of book reviews—something like 80 of them over a 35-year period. I was known for it. I reviewed in all the best places. You might suppose I must have enjoyed doing it. I did not. It was hard work and not in a particularly good way. You have to come to grips with another author’s work and provide a fair and accurate assessment of it, often suitable for a general audience. Every author you review is a potential enemy, because nobody likes to be criticized, and no book is perfect. I was always relieved when I could write a positive review, even if I had quibbles here and there. But above all it was the time and effort: it distracted me from my own work. It wasn’t what I spontaneously wanted to work on. But it seemed to me like a valuable thing to do—a service to the community, that kind of thing. Many of my reviews had untoward consequences for me (I won’t name names). The reviewee often supposed I must have some sort of personal grievance against him or her, or that I had an ideological axe to grind, or that I was just a mean bastard. None of this was true, but try telling them that. I don’t doubt that I made many enemies, and it was neither fun nor lucrative. Above all, it was counterproductive to my own work; I often wondered if I should simply give it up. But it’s hard to say no to the New York Review of Books.

But during the last 10 years I have done virtually no reviewing. It has changed my life, because in the old days I was always occupied with some review or other. Now I can concentrate on my own work. And what a liberation it is! The luxury of pursuing my own thoughts every day instead of trying figure out someone else’s! I don’t even have to satisfy some editor or other, with their cuts and suggestions (you can’t even imagine). It wasn’t my choice, but it worked to my benefit. It makes me think I should have given up reviewing earlier. Farewell book reviewing, and good riddance!