The New Criterion's blog passes on these remarks from historian Paul Johnson which serve very well for my views on the state of contemporary fiction:
The other week I found myself sitting at supper next to someone called Zadie Smith. I thought her rather snooty, to be honest, but gave a novel of hers a try. Alas! I do not want to dwell in the world of multicultural, multisexual squatters, speaking a difficult argot, thinking alien and (to me) nasty thoughts.
More accurately, I should say my expectations of contemporary fiction. I know there must be good work being done, but time spent searching for it doesn't seem to me a good investment. The Atlantic has quit publishing fiction, which is okay with me since I had quit reading theirs. I think the last one I read was a first-person narrative from a girl with a Helen Keller-type disability. It was, naturally, embittered in tone, and I remember thinking, a page or so in: Before this is over I'm going to have to hear all about her masturbating. Sure enough…
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