‘This Book Has Heat’ by Frederick Seidel | The New York Review of Books

‘This Book Has Heat’ by Frederick Seidel | The New York Review of Books.

I read this review last night. From the first paragraph you can tell that it’s not going to be pretty. And yes, it’s a grumpy review. But I think he’s got a point. I’ve abandoned so many novels lately that feel inauthentic. (Michael Chabon, Karen Russell, William Gibson, Jeffrey Eugenides – I am looking at you.) I can’t remember the last novel I actually finished. Wait. Lemme check Goodreads. OK. The last novel I finished was “Restless” by William Boyd. Which was a slog. Before that “Woes of the True Policeman” by Roberto Bolaño. That was good. And before that Richard Stark and Philip K. Dick. So, yes. I can finish a novel. But I think I keep abandoning these other books because they feel… inauthentic. They feel like they are just being written so that they can then be pitched as movies. Am I wrong? Is it just me? Maybe I should just read poetry. This looks good.