Why was I given this book? What did the giver expect? Would he prefer I praise it for being bold and original, or would he like me to criticize it fairly? Might he even want me to tear it apart?
Who is Padgett Powell? Why did Saul Bellow say he was the best writer of his generation? What psychotropic substance got those words out of his mouth? What psychotropic substance got this book out of Powell’s brain? What was his editor thinking? Was he trying to get out of his contract? Why is he allowed to teach writing to other people? Why did he choose to write a book entirely made up of questions? Do you think you could get paid for writing a book entirely made up of questions? Do you think I could get paid for it?
Is it a novel? Is it a disguised personality test? Is it a thought experiment? Is it none of these, or all of them, or some combination of them? Is it interesting? Is it engaging? Is it a fun read? Even if it is a fun read, does that make it a narrative? Does the Latin verb narrare mean “to be fun to read”? If it is not a narrative, can it still be a novel? Does that terminology agree with the technical definition of “novel”? Have we just lost sight of exactly what a novel is?
Why do the blurbs on the back of the book say that it is “intimate and hilarious,” “immensely readable, ingenious, witty and ultimately important-feeling,” or “a delightful stylistic flight”? Why don’t they say that it’s a waste of paper, even though that’s undoubtedly what it is? Why doesn’t Sam Lipsyte admit that The Interrogative Mood isn’t “another brilliant work of fiction”? Why does Luc Sante think I should feel “as rich as Haroun al-Rashid on the thousandth night”? Why are all these people who presumably know literature better than I do giving this book such puff when it is, above all other things, lazy?
What makes a book lazy? Does the author have to just not work at it very hard? Or is it the idea of the book – the germ, if you will – that makes it lazy? Can an idea even be lazy? Does it depend more on the execution of the idea? So, if the idea is “a book made up entirely of questions,” do you need an amazing writer to execute it correctly? Would you need a better writer than Padgett Powell? Would you need a writer prone to delightful stylistic flights? How should I know? What if the questions are, with few exceptions, independent of one another and form a narrative no more than the dust bunnies in my room make up the Great Wall of China? Would that change your answer? Would it change if I told you that there are plenty of follow-up questions like the previous one, and overlong silly ones like this current one that often reveal some inconsequential fact about the questioner, who is the only character in the book, and that really the book is just a stupid fucking piece of literary overcompensation and should be recycled on sight?
Would you prefer it if I calmed down? If I used less profanity? Does profanity upset you? Did you often hear cursewords when you were a child? Do tangents like that one upset you? Did you know they’re sprinkled throughout the book? Did you wonder whether I meant cursewords or tangents? Why would I know?
At the end of the day, what is wrong with this book? What isn’t wrong with this book? Why is this book permitted to even exist? Does the lack of breadth and length make it inconspicuous? Do literary critics sit in their semi-lit studies with a good glass of something and pretend they know what Powell was thinking as he wrote it? Do they wonder, like I do, why the hell he chose to write this book? Do they find some sort of strange satisfaction in pretending they know the book so much better than the rest of us? Isn’t that just like them?
Has reading this review annoyed you? Has it prepared you for reading The Interrogative Mood? Do you feel better able to grasp the meaning of a question? Do you think you’ve gained anything by this experience? Would you prefer to actually go on, and read the Powell book, and form your own opinion of it, unfettered by my vitriolic snarking? Or will you just nod and glance at the book nervously when you glimpse its cover in a bookstore? Will you then wonder why I’ve tried so hard to tear it to pieces? Would you think I’m jealous of Powell’s success? Would you regard me as a small-time curmudgeon, condemned to rail against things for no reason other than getting my jollies? Would you still think I was right?
Should I have read this book? Should you read it? Should you recommend it? Should you even think about it, as you are probably doing right now?
Who gives a shit?
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