Maybe I'll Read That: I Get It, But I Can't Explain It

Installment the third

being a review of …

being itself a review of …

Nothing says “I wish someone would write reviews like this about my book” quite as shamelessly as Kristen Roupenian’s review of this book about a witch. Ms. Roupenian replaces any of the sort of critical engagement we have come to expect from critics with unconditional flattery. The only criticism she seems to have is that most people don’t understand the book as well as she does. She announces herself as the only anglophone critic who understands that this book is funny. Must be a real knee-slapper. 

Unfortunately for Selective Reader, who as he read the review was quiveringly eager to confront the reviewer’s lack of textual citations, Roupenian did provide some direct references to what she thought was so funny about the book. Selective Reader sighed with disappointment, but then perked up when he realized that the only thing Roupenian found funny in this book was a mother’s cruel treatment of her son who wore a shirt that said “I love my mom.” Selective Reader had to hold back his laughter at this point in the review and regain composure by reminding himself of his dedication to the sober life of the mind, at which point it occurred to him to scold Roupenian for laughing at something so inhumane. But he could not help thinking privately to himself that he and Roupenian are perhaps some of the only critics, nay, the only people left who still feel no prick in their conscience for making light of cruelty.

In addition to thinking the book is funny, she also seems to think she understands it: “I have a strong sense I know what this book means, but I can’t fully express it,” she says. Coming from anyone else, this sentence would be grating, but coming from a critic it is absolutely intolerable. Anyone who thinks they understand something shall not be believed until they can prove it. The only acceptable use of this sentence is to end a conversation with someone you think is incapable of understanding what you understand. And, since it comes at the end of the review, perhaps this is exactly the sense in which Roupenian meant it.

Well, Selective Reader has a strong sense he knows what this review is about: A reviewer couldn’t come up with anything insightful to say about a book, nor could she afford to have its author look down on her for a mild review, so she professed her thoughts to be so complex that language itself lacks the sophistication to do them justice. And, with that, she relieves herself of the burden of having to think anything at all. But this is the cherry on top: She makes her wordlessness the ultimate testament to her comprehension when she writes that it “may be a tribute to [the author’s] success in conjuring a world in which knowledge is acquired not through explanation but through a kind of silent apprenticeship.” Well, despite the so-called mysteries involved in figuring it out, I have a strong sense I understand the book just from reading the review … But maybe I’ll read it anyway.