Just Say No To Michiko

So Michiko Kakutani has touched upon nerves far more demyelenated than my own. It is gratifying to not be alone in my dislike. Not dislike of the person; I don't know the person. All I know is that someone in such a prestigious position ought to like some fiction now and again.

My concern over the state of extremely literal criticism has its own international symbol, its version of a yellow ribbon on an old decrepit oak tree. Thank you, Edward Champion.

His post from yesterday caught my eye, and made me laugh:

It’s quite possible that the folks at the New York Times were sitting on this obit for a while, waiting for Styron to kick the bucket. After all, Vincent Canby’s infamous Bob Hope obituary appeared three years after Canby himself had expired. Even so, it’s something of a shock to see that Michiko actually liking a novelist. Go through her archives and you’re not going to find a rave for a fiction book until her February review of Dana Spiotta’s Eat the Document.

So what are we to make of this? Is this a critic who can no longer feel
the thrills of ficitve immersion? I’m not against negative reviews (far from
it). And Michiko has had no problems these days passing plaudits for nonfiction
books.

I’m not asking for Michiko to turn into a Harriet Klausner. But
when a critic goes nine months without actually liking anything, one must ask
why she bothers to cover fiction in the first place. Sure, there are a lot of
dogs out there right now. (Lisey’s Story, I’m looking at you!) But this being
the autumn publishing season, there are any number of books to be enthusiastic
about right now.

A few years back, Scott noted: Reading [Kakutani's] reviews has become the literary equivalent of watching the Harlem Globetrotters play the Washington Generals.

(I thought I would bow out with a sporting comment, it being Super Bowl Sunday and all. Go Steelers!)