It only took a few hours into the new year to find prose so terrible that it will find no equal in the next 364 days. Galley Friend J.B. points out this Guardian column, which begins:
"According to the diary of my wife Jill Krementz, the photographer, the young British-Indian novelist Salman Rushdie came to our house in Sagaponack, Long Island, for lunch on May 9, 1981."
It goes downhill from there.
20 minutes ago
1 comment:
Nothing quite as bracing as a hit-and-run attack against Kurt Vonnegut, without having actually dropped the name of your target. On your own critical principles, why isn't it possible for Kurt to write something worse in the next 364 days? Maybe he's just warming up to new heights of literary incompetence. On the other hand, maybe the memorial squib for Algren isn't as bad as alleged, although Shakespeare it's not. What say you?
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