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Since the initial publication of Hatchet Jobs, the groves of literary criticism have echoed with the clatter of steel on wood. From heated panels at Book Expo in Chicago to contretemps at writers' watering holes in New York, voices--even fists--have been raised. Peck's bracing philippic proposes that contemporary literature is at a dead end. Novelists have forfeited a wider audience, succumbing to identity politicking and self-reflexive postmodernism. In the torrent of responses to this fulguration, opinions were not so much divided as cleaved in two with, for example, Carlin Romano contending that "Peck's judgments are worse than nasty--they are hysterical" and Benjamin Schwarz retorting that "in his meticulous attention to diction, his savage wit, his exact and rollicking prose and his disdain for pseudointellectual flatulence, Dale Peck is Mencken's heir." Hatchet Jobs includes swinging critiques of the work of, among others, Sven Birkerts, Julian Barnes, Philip Roth, Colson Whitehead, Jim Crace, Stanley Crouch, and Rick Moody.… (més)
Peck's reviews make for fascinating reading, but I hate the binding. It's nigh impossible to hold the book open with one hand, and even with two, you almost have to pull each side apart. ( )
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All I said was: there, you see, it is broken -- William Carlos Williams, Spring and All
Dedicatòria
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This book is dedicated to Sally Singer, who commissioned the first of its essays; and to her husband, Joe O'Neill, who has been an indefatigable reader, good friend, and introduced me to its publisher. I owe an extra-special thank you to Jim Lewis, who knew everything I know about fiction before I did. I apologize if I got it all wrong.
Primeres paraules
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In July 2002, I raised a ruckus in the publishing world when I panned Rick Moody's memoir The Black Veil at some length in the New Republic.
Citacions
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The novelist treats the facts of history as a juggler treats his balls rather than as a rock climber treats his pitons: it's the amount of time he can keep away from them that's most fascinating, not the time he spends clinging on for dear life. p. 149
Darreres paraules
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Contemporary novels have either counterfeited reality, or forfeited it. In their stead we need a new materialism.
Since the initial publication of Hatchet Jobs, the groves of literary criticism have echoed with the clatter of steel on wood. From heated panels at Book Expo in Chicago to contretemps at writers' watering holes in New York, voices--even fists--have been raised. Peck's bracing philippic proposes that contemporary literature is at a dead end. Novelists have forfeited a wider audience, succumbing to identity politicking and self-reflexive postmodernism. In the torrent of responses to this fulguration, opinions were not so much divided as cleaved in two with, for example, Carlin Romano contending that "Peck's judgments are worse than nasty--they are hysterical" and Benjamin Schwarz retorting that "in his meticulous attention to diction, his savage wit, his exact and rollicking prose and his disdain for pseudointellectual flatulence, Dale Peck is Mencken's heir." Hatchet Jobs includes swinging critiques of the work of, among others, Sven Birkerts, Julian Barnes, Philip Roth, Colson Whitehead, Jim Crace, Stanley Crouch, and Rick Moody.
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