The “By the Book” column in yesterday’s New York Times Book Review featured a writer I had never heard of citing authors I had never heard of. The book on her nightstand, the last great book she read, the book people might be surprised to find on her shelves, the book she would most like to see turned into a movie, the last book that made her laugh, the last book that made her cry, the last book that made her furious – they were all written by people unknown to me. Even the three guests at her imaginary literary dinner party were writers I was unfamiliar with.
My first thought, as a fairly well-read citizen, was that there is an enormous population of writers these days. Fran Lebowitz has complained that there are way too many books being published. The problem, as she sees it, is that young people have been taught self-esteem, which leads them to believe they have something to say.
I tend to agree with her, though it’s hard for someone who writes books that get published (most of them) to admit that there are too many books in the world. On the other hand, the thought occurred to me that the author the Book Review interviewed was simply taking advantage of the opportunity to give her friends some needed publicity.
