Courtesy of my Nature colleague Oliver Morton, I read a review of a book that puts my leaden attempts to shame. Sam Anderson in the New York Magazine
New York Review of Books writes a "book-review procedural about Richard Price’s Lush Life".
…."The door skipped open and, after an empty beat, Randolph Mayer scissored in on stiff legs, chief technician from the Quality of Literature analysis lab; crossed the room slow and crooked like he was walking on chopsticks; rumor was, sometime back in the whole Harry Potter craze, he ended up pinned between 8-year-olds at a big release party; left with grade-three paper cuts on both Achilles’. Bright red mullet. Ross called him the Scarlet Gimpernel.
“Just got the results from the Bullshit-Indicator Test,” Mayer said. “Thought you’d wanna know. Book came out almost totally clean.”
“Good,” said Ross. “We can rave it—1,000 percent pure positivity, for once. Another nego review, editorial’ll have my ass. Manna from fucking heaven.”
“Except, but boss?” said Mayer.
“Oh Christ.” Looked like a rat just chewed the cover off his autographed hand-revised first-edition Leaves of Grass.
“Three things, couple small, one big,” Mayer said…."
Just read the review. Brilliant. But I do feel like hanging up my hat, if that’s the correct expression for retired book reviewers.