I importuned a bunch of writers and hacks about books they had read that now, when mentioned, make the red mist descend. Books that made them angry just thinking about them; that were once clotted with extravagant critical praise, like the butter surrounding the tiny crustaceans in the potted shrimp at White’s club, or that sort of sprang from the collective consciousness of the metropolitan elite of the time and that everybody felt they had to read. And that, from either category, we now realise are close to worthless.This is another reason I am reluctant to read contemporary fiction. There's been no shaking out of the genuine masterpieces from the empty, trendy also-rans.
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
These are the kind of books that I utterly loathe.
Posted by Amber at 10:47 PM