That’s Just the Booze Talking responds to Bookforum‘s “5,300-word exegesis on why no one reads Harold Brodkey anymore.”

Our guess is that no one sees the value in his narcissistic and masturbatory self-regard, which informs every syllable of his prose and makes even a cursory reading of his fiction like taking a muddy trudge through the shallow wrack of Lake Bitchcakes. Indeed, it can be said with no measure of hyperbole that Brodkey, even more so than Norman “Cap’n Stabbin'” Mailer, was the single most solipsistic American writer of his time, which is saying something, given the navel-gazing proclivities of Updike, Bellow, Roth, et al.


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