The Crimson Petal and the White by Michael Faber: Oh, come on. I’m almost done with you. You’ve been good for about 500 pages. But isn’t this getting a bit anticlimactic? I’ve followed you this far and I’ll finish you, of course. But you can do better than this, even though I still love you. For the most part.

The Fifties by David Halberstam: Lots of info there, pal. Too bad I’m reading another longass book. And a couple of recent dense reads burned me out a bit on history. But I’ll finish you up eventually. You’ve done your homework like a good boy. But what’s up with the “us” shit?

Empire Falls by Richard Russo: Sorry, boss, you’re a bit too simplistic and cartoonish for my tastes. In fact, you resemble a popular novel. But I have to finish you this week for the book club. What were you thinking naming the daughter Tick? And sure, you can move characters around on a chessboard, but I’m a bit puzzled why you won the Pulitzer. The blue-collar people here are fey facsimilies of upper-class upstate types: both in their makeups and their problems. 50 pages in and no one’s hurting. Please tell me, Mr. Russo, that all of your books aren’t like this, and that things will get more effed up here.

American in the Twenties by Geoffrey Perrett: I’m not quite sure why I haven’t jumped into you. You’re sincere, you’re informative, you’re a labor of love. But you’re not quite my cup of tea right now. Maybe we can both blame Halberstam. Can’t wait to get into you, but there’s still this quasi-bronchitis thing. Go figure. Maybe we’ll sleep together sometime this week.

I get sick very rarely, but one thing I do know: the current loss of appetite, aching muscles, headaches, lack of concentration, and weird pain in my alveoli is not normal. Plus, I’m having difficulty putting sentences together and revising dialogue. And I’ll need to rack up some energy for my obligations tonight and this weekend. What this means is probably not much here over the weekend. But for couples, happy Valentine’s Day. And for singles, avoid the propaganda. You’re all sexy too. But you don’t need a partner/date or some Quirkyalone bullshit to affirm this.

In the meantime, check out some of the fine folks on the left, or revel in Lindsayism’s IM conversation or Tom’s description of “the Witch.” Or keep track of the closing days of Will Leitch’s Life as a Loser. (To hell with Dave Sim. Leitch only has seven columns left!)

Sad news from Lusty Lady: Sarah Jacobson has cancer. For those pipsqueaks who weren’t in San Francisco during the mid-90s, Jacobson was a shining beacon in the indie filmmaking community. I saw Mary Jane is Not a Virgin Anymore back in the day, and dug it. All my best to Sarah, hoping she can beat the rap.

Big news from the Times this morning: An Amazon glitch unmasked the psuedonyms of reviewers. One “David K. Eggers” (confirmed to be Eggers) called Believer editor Heidi Julavits’ novel “the best book of the year.” Eggers’ response was put up to counter negative criticisms that he believed to stem from the Underground Literary Alliance. But it turns out that everyday people thought that the Julavits book sucked. Did Julavits author the anti-snark manifesto to prevent not so much “savage” reviews, but the singling out of her own mediocre writing? Most people in this business have thick skins and can simply ignore negative reviews. Furthermore, how ethical is it for a close associate to post a book review because of their own paranoia? The more I hear about Eggers’ shenanigans, the more I am convinced that, behind the “nice guy” image, the talent, and the charity, lies an unethical and highly scrupulous enfant terrible. Then again, much of this impression is, like Eggers’ ULA conspiracy theory, framed on hunches and things I’ve heard from bookstore clerks. The difference is that I’m willing to admit that I might be wrong.

“No man can cause more grief than the one clinging blindly to the vices of his ancestors.” — William Faulkner, Intruder in the Dust

Several weeks ago, the Village Voice told me never to write for them again. My literary outing had come, as it were, as a hatchet man. But after talking with my therapist and having lots of sex one wistful Friday evening with my main man, it suddenly occurred to me that I could continue to write articles about the articles I had already written. Furthermore, I could become something of a schizophrenic, wavering between long savage reviews and a kinder, gentler Dale Peck. A Dale Peck as adorable as a plush toy, a cuddly critic, but not too cuddly.

So it was with some relief that I accepted Edward Champion’s offer to clarify a few things on his blog. What Mr. Champion realized, unlike my other enemies, is that I would never shut up about my thoughts on the novel. And so he encouraged me.

If criticism can be called a sandwich, then it is composed of tuna fish. Nearly every critic today fails to consider the mayo once they’ve opened the can. But I, Dale Peck, am always capable of mixing my tuna with the mayo. Sometimes with relish, sometimes without. If you get my obvious metaphor, properly preparing a tuna fish sandwich is a duty that has eluded the current generation. And while the Voice and others may not appreciate this, someone very important out there does. Namely, Dale Peck.

It’s destiny, I’m sure, to take up space on the blogs that celebrate literature, sandwiched between the LiveJournal entries and the link-plus-commentary approach which counts for punditry. The reasonable argument is for the loser. And the true critic must remain chronically bitter, because the situation is well out of control.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not blaming any particular book blogger for the phenomenon. I lost my love for literature the minute they started publishing my books, but certainly I’d rather write about my enmity than work in an office. Either way involves a unique form of hatred. If I didn’t express my contempt for authors, I’d probably be expressing it to a manager. I’d make any manager’s life a living hell, possibly stalking them after work.

When I read any sentence I get angry with it, and I am convinced that all sentences are out to get me. Thus my hatred is directed lovingly towards anyone who composes a sentence in the English language. This is because I see myself as a kind of self-loathing human being, not so much towards others but to the sentences they crank out.

So when Roddy Doyle goes after Joyce, I say, let the man go hog wild. I support Mr. Doyle’s ranting because I happen to think his nose is sexy, and I’m sure he would be a good lay. Mr. Doyle hasn’t yet returned any of my calls, but as any writer knows, perseverance is what counts.

The plain truth is that I am less and less capable of intellectual engagement because I no longer have any ideas or emotions left in me, save one that you probably aren’t interested in.