Another uplifting New York Times Book Review Sunday. On the cover, where every week I hope to find Paul Theroux’s new travel book about Mexico, was an essay, “The Cult of the Literary Sad Woman.” Inside were reviews of three memoirs, one about “a troubled youth,” one about “a dying husband’s troubled legacy” (I see a theme), and one in which “a rape survivor seeks answers to her trauma.” These were followed by a review of a collection of essays by a woman who “sees gradual loss in all around us.” And I wonder: Is the Book Review accurately reflecting the range of books being published - if so, it's an excessively narrow range - or its editors' dyspeptic view of the world?
