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Expendable Mudge Muses Aloud

So dreary, so sure it's Art, so smugly Writerly. Bah.

The Book of Illusions - Paul Auster

I've never been fond of pompous writing, the kind that checks its look in the mirror of acclaim and piles on the self-satisfied smirking smugness that makes me want to torch all the MFA schools I can reach.




My review, which I've moved to my blog, says that and more. Apparently the hoi polloi slithering in from the Internet's more sanctimonious quarters don't agree with me, therefore I must be wrong.