The earlier essays are better, filled with the energy of the angry young man he once was, and it would have been more entertaining to read more negative reviews. A writer always makes a poor book reviewer for the writer has been there, knows the late nights staring at the blank page, the early morning gloom that sets in when a re-reading is needed.
Good pieces on Ballard and Burroughs, plus a few British writers I'm not that familiar with. His cultural criticisms are sharp - more of those would have been welcome - and his fondness that verges on idolatry for Nabokov is a bit much.
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