I used to believe that I’d mature out of my peevish resentment of those devotees of DeLillo, Paul Auster, and the many other writers whose work I find gutless, overwhittled, and small.
(While holding onto my devotion to Exley and Edmund Wilson.)
I’ll regard it as good fortune that I find I am maintaining my opinion that those writers are weaklings and effete connoisseurs who huddle together in the muddling puddle of gathering what strength they may by reciprocating to one another attestations of value and quality, like chameleons on a mirror.
(While I lead the audacious and harum-scarum imperial guards into peppy brothels and salacious bars.)
In academic and institutional settings I have always tipped toward whistle-blowing rather than the expedient and gentler suggestions that might lead to a quieter and collegial remediation of problems.
In the literary wars I find that I have decided to plant my feet in my own particular trench, and in a churlish, indiscriminate, and clamorous way continue without contrition to fling brickbats at the people I shall forever call the scrawny chickens of the literary barnyard.
To whom I say: get the hell out of Dodge.
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