Vicious, clever, and accurate characterizations of critics and writers… although I really did like “My Life in Heavy Metal.” I thought it was well-written and well-characterized, even if it was self-indulgent. Maybe it’s because, (here comes the annoying syntax of the liberal-arts student), as a self-involved twenty-something, his work speaks to me in a particular way.
Ugh, excuse me while I go wash my hands. I feel disgusting for saying that. I liked the book because it was about the confused search for happiness and the miserable results of desire. Probably The Torturer’s Apprentice and Drown treat those themes a lot better, but I liked Steve Almond too.
Self-involved, yeah, sure. They’re young writers. They’re people. We’re all self-involved. I mean, I hate David Foster Wallace as much as … well, not as much as I dislike Ben Stiller.
But the thing is: when I see these narrators coming to grief because they’re unable to empathize and unable to understand the perspective of others, I understand their perspective and I understand that mine is fundamentally skewed. Maybe just a little, but a little is enough.
Secretly Ironic 