Here's the not-so-hidden secret of book reviewing: Many writers, especially younger ones, regard other people's books as an opportunity to enhance their own reputations. What better way to show off one's own wit, erudition, and verbal artistry than to debunk someone else's? And if you can look good at some poor writer's expense—well, why not? Edmund Wilson, himself a formidable reviewer, lamented that reading reviews of his own books, "whether favorable or unfavorable, is one of the most disappointing experiences in life," and the novelist Arnold Bennett claimed he never read his reviews, he only measured them. "Reviewing is not really a respectable occupation," W.H. Auden snapped. "A reviewer is responsible for any harm he does, and he can do quite a lot."
You bet he (or she) can. A few catty, well-placed reviews can kill a book faster than a burning pyre. Those of us who watched Dale Peck beat up on Rick Moody's The Black Veil in The New Republic and David Gates tear into Tim O'Brien's July, July in The New York Times Book Review felt a little scorched ourselves. But for pure, malicious bloodletting, nothing beat Joe Queenan's New York Times review of A.J. Jacobs's The Know-It-All. Although I happen to think Queenan was right, his review was so gratuitously nasty that one couldn't help thinking that the editor of the Book Review knew it would cause a ruckus, which it did, even prompting an entertaining rebuttal from Jacobs entitled "I Am Not a Jackass."
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- Ikhide
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