In an uncharacteristic abandonment of diaphanous snark, Gawker’s Emily Gould defends Meghan O’Rourke, causing Gawker commenters to pick up the catty slack. Personally, I think Meghan O’Rourke’s a fine critic. I could care less about whether or not she worked at the New Yorker or who she’s marrying. That such needless questions increasingly matter to people who comment on blogs is appalling. If you’re going to criticize O’Rourke, do so for her work. Not because she spells her first name with an H or because she was more successful than you.
Re: O’Rourke — I’m not sure I would characterize Gould’s post as an “abandonment” of Gawker’s usual ways, considering their decision to create the storm and perpetuate hearsay by posting that anonymous letter in the first place. Schadenfreude masquerading as good intentions, methinks–calls to mind last week’s Pessl pissing match…
What I don’t understand about Ms. O’Rourke is the schizophrenic nature of her personality. She talks endlessly about the divide netween rich and poor in this country, about the importance of class– yet she herself is a major beneficiary of privilege, as has been pointed out.
If she wants our literature to be more representative– well, more representative writers are out there, and she has the forum to give them a moment in the spotlight.
I really love this blog.
Auditioning on feedback is a laugh. I hope they ok my 2cents, for the record I think Surowiecki (O’Rourke hubby) writes well.
Gotta second the Chesterton love. “The Man Who was Thursday” is as relevant and cheerfully frenetic as it was (exactly) a century ago. (Come to think of it, we wouldn’t be too far off the mark to talk about that novel as a precursor to people like Pynchon, Dick, Murakami.)
I’ll third that! Chesterton is one of the greats. He even inspired Borges…
At the risk of being unoriginal, I cast my vote in Chesterton’s direction as well. In fact, I like him so well that I’ve started a blog dedicated to his writing. Come have a read if you’re interested: The Hebdomadal Chesterton.
I cannot take seriously any assessment of the DeLillo oeuvre that relegates Underworld and Mao II to the merely “recommended” and consigns The Body Artist to “to be avoided.” Contrarianism is fine, but this kind of Ebert and Roepert schtick does readers a disservice.
seriously, yo. that delillo shit was garbage. i love new york but it should steer clear of books and stick with socialites. cosmopolis is about 9/11, not pre-9/11. shudder to think someone will read that and steer clear of cosmopolis.