Dear Christopher,
I’ve let you down, obviously. You gave me the new Dave Eggers novel months ago so I could review it. Then I missed your deadline, the publication date, the reading. You had to let another writer review it. I understand. It’s my own fault.
I had planned to write a rejoinder to all the insufferable Eggers haters out there still clinging to late-’90s resentments, unwilling to admit that he was and is a fantastically talented writer, over and above his superliterary pursuits (which I also admire). I’ve wanted to write this piece for years. Unfortunately, to do so would’ve meant reading the book, and I just don’t have time right now. I read the first few pages (intriguing!), and carried it with me everywhere, uncontinued, for months. The edges are so brown and flappy—it looks like I’ve read it a dozen times. But that’s no consolation. Reading is hard to budget with movies (I particularly liked Old Joy), music (the new Sloan is surprisingly good), and social life. I barely have time for Anthony Lane every fortnight. I’ll get to the Eggers, I promise. It’s not going anywhere; it’s a book. What, if you’ll forgive my paraphrase, is the rush?
Contritely,
Sean
P.S. I know this isn’t the time, but what are your plans for the new Martin Amis?
