Puzzled by Proulx? Dumbfounded by DeLillo? Angered by Auster? Uh...um...mangled by McCarthy? If you think modern literature has traded in plot for pretension and characters for cliche, then read "A Reader's Manifesto," a 2001 article by B.R. Myers.
I first came across it more than a year ago, and I've re-read three or four times since. To call it a "critique" is a criminal understatement; it is a complete evisceration. Myers' deconstruction of Annie Proulx's dense, unreadable prose is alone worth the price of admission.
Looking back at the preceding paragraphs, I confess to my cliches ("criminal understatement;" "worth the price of admission"), my failed attempts at cuteness ("plot for pretension and characters for cliche"), and my vague language ("came across it;" "to call it"). Which is more self-reflection than Paul Auster has ever done.
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