The truth of the matter is, though I devour books at an alarming rate, I rarely ever pick up any contemporary fiction to read. When I do, I'm usually disappointed. Sometimes, I'm even moved to anger, as was the case in the months when I really felt like kicking Dave Eggers in the teeth, he's so clever.

Most of my heroes are dead, Janey. And long so. In literature, music, and life. And this is no coincidence.

Sure, this kid Foer's got chops. His next book will probably be pretty good. It will be marketed well and people will buy it. He'll be interviewed in newspapers and possibly appear on Charlie Rose. But none of it will matter.

Where's this generation's William Faulkner? The next Saul Bellow? The new Hemingway? When will we see a contemporary writer emerge with true literary courage, instead of a bag of tricks learned during three insulated years in an M.F.A. program?


I'm only 27 years old and already this jaded, Janey. I don't know why this is, but maybe it's because I work in publishing, and because I write. Every day I read proposals from these new jacks, looking hopefully for the voice that will define this generation, and every day I grow farther and farther from that fantasy.

Don't even ask me about the contemporary poets.

-- TLJ
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"The scent of these armpits is aroma finer than prayer?" -- Walt Whitman