There are times, unavoidably, that I pick up a book that is terrible. You’ve read about a couple of those books here (do I need to remind you of the staggering mess wrought by the burning flames of failure that is John Irving’s latest?). Then there are the books that are just so utterly awful [...]
Oh, Mr. Irving. How clever you must feel. The delightful, blissful, pee-your-pants-a-little-bit joy you must feel each an every morning when you wake up and realize that, while your book is a literary disaster and the public is outraged that such a travesty would flow from the tip of your pen (MacBook Pro?), you can sit pretty because, apparently, that’s the whole point.