September 26, 2005
Things I mutter to myself at Subway during my lunch break.
God damn it I hate to say it but George Saunders’s new book The Brief and Frightening Reign of Phil was a terrible disappointment. I blame the New Yorker, which seems to publish a Saunders story every two months or so, signaling to publishers and critics alike that he can do no wrong. So when the editors call and say 'hey, listen George, what are you working on?’ And he says, ‘um, I have this kid’s book about totalitarianism,’ they say ‘how about we push the leading up a bit and add some pictures to it and sell it as a $13.00 trade paperback? It will be just like Animal Farm! A kids book, but written for adults. What do you say?'
And it just gets me riled, standing here, ordering a tuna sandwich, because Civilwarland in Bad Decline and Pastorelia were such perfect books. Saunders seemed to be writing from some brand new standpoint, sidestepping all of the greasy wax-paper that everyone else was slipping on. He was writing in style that used surrealism to realisms ends. And man did it work.
Times are so much worse now, and we are all so much more block-headed and confused. We need writers like Saunders to indicate where the lights are and whistle at us when we slip into the ditch. We don’t need another kids book from a celebrity author.
And um, yes, thanks. I’ll take a little bit of mustard, salt pepper, oil and vinegar as well. And a new George Saunders novel please.
