{"id":5196,"date":"2010-06-06T21:20:05","date_gmt":"2010-06-07T05:20:05","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/teensleuth.com\/hauntedlibrary\/?p=5196"},"modified":"2010-06-06T21:20:05","modified_gmt":"2010-06-07T05:20:05","slug":"americas-next-top-novel-brought-to-you-by-eustace-tilley-and-james-bottomtooth","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/teensleuth.com\/hauntedlibrary\/?p=5196","title":{"rendered":"America’s Next Top Novel – Brought to You by Eustace Tilley and James Bottomtooth"},"content":{"rendered":"

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Oh the banality of it all. In today’s double issue of the venerable New Yorker, the snoots and James Bottomtooths pay homage to 20 young (under 40) whippersnappers, whom they deem to be the most talented and most important<\/em> writers of their generation. It will be the first such unnecessary pronouncement from the magazine since 1999 when the list included future literary stars Jhumpa Lahiri, Nathan Englander and Junot D\u00c3\u00adaz as well as already established young authors Michael Chabon, Jeffrey Eugenides, and David Foster Wallace. I subscribe to the New Yorker. I, like all New Yorker subscribers, amass stacks of back issues which I eventually get around to reading and usually enjoy. But come on<\/em>. “20 under 40?” A celebration of \u00c2\u00a0“book writer’s”\u00c2\u00a0youth and nubility? Why? First of all, The New Yorker’s bromidic attempt to assert itself as a uniquely powerful and influential force in the unfolding history of contemporary literature is so tedious and fatuous I’m moving Harpers to the top of the “to read” periodicals stack. Ahem, New Yorker, while you are a well curated, meaningful, entertaining magazine, your moment of cultural authority has passed. Like long past, as evidenced by the magazine’s increasing coverage of current events and hot topics like celebrities and business tycoons and the “Goings on” often focused on Manhattan nightlife. Recently I’ve read “The Roundup: VH1 Diva, Elton John, Wax Fang”, “The Tea Party Book List”, \u00c2\u00a0“Supermodel Sticker Shock” \u00c2\u00a0and “Heidi Montag Talks To God”. And let’s not even get into the escalating over focus on those \u00c2\u00a0– I’m going to say it – kind of annoying cartoons.<\/p>\n

Anyone see the episode of Family Guy <\/a>where Brian visits\u00c2\u00a0the New Yorker?<\/p>\n

Not to be self promoting, but it’s pretty funny.<\/p>\n

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I have no problem sifting through any of those things, if it means the New Yorker can stay afloat for me to read the “Arrest of Madame Agathe” by Phillip Gourevitch, or anything by him at all or by Adam Gopnik or Cynthia Zarin (not related to Jill and Bobbie. I think. I hope.) \u00c2\u00a0But no <\/em>one, and certainly no one under 40 (the average of a New Yorker reader is 48), is running to their mailboxes waiting for culturally-legitimating pronouncements from (fictional) taste purveyour and mincing capon Eustace Tilley.\u00c2\u00a0Despite the obvious fact that the lion’s share of youthful culture’s energy has migrated to the web, \u00c2\u00a0these<\/em> young authors who have been selected \u00c2\u00a0by the New Yorker, are guaranteed <\/em>to g<\/em>rip the attention of readers today and into the future, and their work will be read and taught and scrutinized and taken very seriously and remembered by future generations the way other early bloomers, like Martin Amis or Patricia Highsmith were\/are.<\/p>\n

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It’s one thing to focus on age when you’re talking about actors or athletes or television writers, really about just about everyone except<\/em> old fashioned book writers. Does anyone seriously consider the age<\/em> of an author (unless it’s age over<\/em> youth),\u00c2\u00a0when selecting reading material? Does anyone even really still “speak to their generation” in genres other than blogs and terrible movies? \u00c2\u00a0I mean maybe they do, and I am just drawn to old fogies. I am an un reformable judger of a book by its cover and author bios. One look at a coiffed blonde hairdo and a power suit slapped on the back of a mystery novel and I am NOT INTERESTED, choosing instead the wizened and suspiciously knowing octogenarian who may actually have seen – or participated in -a murder in his\/her long and storied lifetime. Maybe the New Yorker will have to start to surgically altering their contributor’s birth dates in order to fit their \u00c2\u00a0narrow idea of literary, youthful beauty? \u00c2\u00a0Or airbrushing and spray tanning and implanting authors’ bio notes to make them seem more youthful, slim and smooth? Ah, NO.\u00c2\u00a0Because no one really cares. There was a time when something like this list would offer young writers the opportunity at becoming a young literary darling, a lucky brat in the pack or a gen x writer, whose comings and goings were tracked and glorified in the style section, in New York magazine and \u00c2\u00a0in “at home withs” and “out and about withs…”and took took on a momentum. But those days are kind of over. Right? \u00c2\u00a0In a blogosphere? \u00c2\u00a0So, late bloomers, take comfort in the fact that while you wait for a hiatus from your actual job, or toil away at night, maybe successful, but never quite getting that foothold, I don’t think you are competing against the 20 under 40. But maybe start a blog anyway, just in case I am wrong.<\/p>\n

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There were a few dudes, now New Yorker darlings, who have produced books that will<\/em> likely define the decade but are TOO OLD.<\/strong><\/p>\n

TOO OLD<\/strong><\/h3>\n