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.

Since everybody wants to see some dissing (well, maybe only Mark), and Terry’s been accused of “joining the ranks of other conservative authors and commentators who have recently been expressing their disdain for ‘modern art’ and literature,” I thought I’d weigh in.

Terry has been called “conservative” for expressing his dislike for Virginia Woolf, who he dared to call “marginally readable.” But how precisely is this conservative? Is Terry conservative because he writes for Commentary and The Wall Street Journal? Is Terry conservative because he expressed disfavor towards a woman? (And if that were the case, why then did he also praise the Algonquin Round Table, led by Dorothy Parker, in the same post?) What precisely is it, in Robert Green’s mind, that makes Terry the literary equivalent of a gun-toting right-to-lifer?

Point of Order: “One would think that conservatives would value an approach to literature that keeps the emphasis on its literary qualities, on its capacity to reinvigorate the aesthetic impulse, to exemplify imaginative ‘human accomplishment,’ to use Murray’s phrase. In my mind a truly conservative approach to art would seek to preserve the Western tradition of artistic skill and innovation to which writers like Joyce, Faulkner, and Woolf decidedly belong.”

Beyond the extremely conflicting manner in which Daniel “I Came Off the MFA Assembly Line” Green lays down his terms, what this basically boils down to is another literary vs. popular snobfest. I can imagine literary champions shoving such terrible misfires as Faulkner’s Sanctuary and Woolf’s The Voyage Out down throats like plastic polymer vitamins we have to enjoy, that we must not admonish, and that we must hole up with, a glass of claret in our hands, killing all doubts, extolling the literary qualities in the same shameful way that an unemployed steel worker stands in the dole line. The Grand Literary Author, it would seem, can do no wrong.

And how reactionary is that?

The conservative critic is the one who falls into line, who likes everything handed to him from the canon, and who regurgitates the same tired arguments. The conservative critic is the one who stands against snarky fun, setting forth the “play nice” dogma into a bullshit manifesto for a fledgling magazine. The conservative critic is sometimes like Heidi Julavits, Dale Peck, Laura Miller, and (in this case) Scott Green: replacing valid criticism and the joys of reading with a stunning need for attention.

Terry may not have elucidated his reasons for disliking Woolf, but I can give you a one sentence exemplar, res ipsa loquitur really, that might express why:

She thought of three different scenes; she thought of Mary sitting upright and saying, ‘I’m in love — I’m in love’; she thought of Rodney losing his self-consciousness among the dead leaves, and speaking with the abandonment of a child; she thought of Denham leaning upon the stone parapet and talking to the distant sky, so that she thought him mad.

That’s from Night and Day. And if you think that convulted attempt to get at consciousness is even remotely readable, then I shudder at your sensibilities. Woolf may have been among the first authors to describe every nicety of existence under the sun, but that doesn’t mean that she should have.

Excluding A Room of One’s Own and Mrs. Dalloway (from what I’ve read of Woolf — and I started, unfortunately, at the beginning), I’m in Terry’s camp. But then I whole-heartedly confess that I am bored by ponderous and humorless prose.