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Faint Praise: The Plight of Book Reviewing in America by
Gail Pool University
of Missouri Press Summer
2007 |
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Inside
Book Reviewing |
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This article
first appeared in Boston Review in 1987 and was reprinted in Best
of Library Literature for that year.
A follow-up article, called “Critics Unmasked,” appeared in Boston
Review in 1988. |
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In a terse letter to the New York Times
Book Review last winter, the poet Hayden Carruth complained about the
negative review that the Times had given The Selected Poems of
James Laughlin, founder of the venerable New Directions Publishing
Corporation. Calling the review “a
disgrace to us all,” Carruth said that reviewer and book had been mismatched,
that the reviewer had not understood the poems, and that this was especially
unfortunate for a poet’s final collection.
Arriving at the heart of his objection, he concluded: “When the poet
is someone who has given as much to writing in this country as Mr. Laughlin
has, it seems even more distressing, though I know this is an extraliterary
consideration. But I’m sure it will be
prominent in the thoughts of most of your readers.” It did seem sad and somehow unjust that Laughlin, who had sponsored many of our finest poets, should have his own work panned. Yet the review was persuasive. Should the reviewer have toned down his judgment out of kindness or deference to the author? Should he have obscured his critical points to avoid attack? Would such treatment have been more “fair”? Or did responsibility lie with the editor: should he have sought out a reviewer more sympathetic to the poems? As Carruth implied, a different “match” might have yielded a more favorable reading. But is it any fairer to seek out a favorable judgment than a hostile one? During
ten years as an editor and reviewer for periodicals as disparate as The
Christian Science Monitor, Wilson Library Bulletin, and The
Nation, I have become increasingly aware of the moral complexities of the
field. In deciding which books to
review, who should review them, and how they should be treated editors and
reviewers face choices that make unfairness hard to avoid. Yet surprisingly for a field so given to
scrutiny, these ethical dilemmas have seldom been addressed. Indeed, a National Book Critics Circle
“Ethics Questionnaire,” distributed to members this spring, is one of the few
acknowledgements that a problem exists or that moral failures occur. The
extent of the problem was brought home last year by A Mother’s Work, a
book that received wide attention because of its controversial subject. Written by Deborah Fallows, a Radcliffe
graduate with a Ph.D. in linguistics, the book explains her decision to leave
an administrative position and stay home with her two sons. It also describes conditions in some
daycare centers she visited in the following years, discusses some problems
of daycare, and makes some suggestions for improving it. The
book first came to my attention when a writer asked to review it for my
column. From the book’s dust jacket,
it seemed that Fallows felt a mother’s work lay in the home, but I didn’t
take the time to confirm this impression by reading the book before mailing
it off to the reviewer. To my
surprise, her review praised Fallows for moving “beyond the facile arguments
for or against women working outside the home.” The dust jacket, I assumed, had been
misleading. Some weeks later, however,
I found the book reviewed in The New York Times Book Review: “I
won’t keep you in suspense,” the reviewer began. “According to A Mother’s Work, a
mother’s work is to stay home and raise her children.” Clearly, both reviews
could not be correct. In
the following weeks, I saw other reviews that gave contradictory impressions
about the book. The case began to
intrigue me and eventually I asked the publisher for all reviews the book had
received. Comparing them proved a
fascinating exercise: not only did they disagree in their evaluations of the
book, they differed in their assessment of its nature and basic message: “She
by no means urges that all moms stay home with their kids all day,” said one
reviewer. But another asserted that
Fallows was maintaining that “if it is at all possible mothers should stay
home and raise their children.” Some
reviewers characterized Fallows’s observations of daycare centers as
“objective research”; others (though they liked the book) described it as
personal and “biased.” Some
reviewers thought her research was thorough; others considered it so
significantly limited that, broadly speaking, it wasn’t valid. Some reviewers called the book
“nonjudgmental”; others called Fallows “preachy” and said she felt everyone
should make the same decision she had.
Some reviewers gave the impression that the book contributed new
information to an issue; others claimed it was a book that only articulated a
position. A
lack of time may have led some reviewers to give the book a careless
reading. A lack of space prevented
almost all reviewers from developing an argument for or against the book’s
position: some merely stated that the book was “important,” without
demonstrating why; others gave a limited and somewhat distorted picture of
its flaws. But
the main problem was that writers reviewed the issue of childcare rather than
the book. Most reviewers were involved
in the issue: almost all identified themselves as mothers. Some admitted they were measuring Fallows’s
ideas against their own experience; some even appeared to be working out
their own guilt—or self-satisfaction—within the reviews. While the sensitive nature of daycare
brought out a partisan emotionalism in some reviewers, it made others so
cautious they handled the book with kid gloves. In the end, few reviewers seemed able to
give the book a thorough, fair assessment. Whether inspired by carelessness or bias, the
discrepancies in these reviews point to an ethical failure in handling the
problems of book reviewing. Although A
Mother’s Work may not be typical—some books fare worse than others in the
review media, and controversial books are hard to review—the problems the
book posed were not unique. Nor were
the solutions. Too often the book
review industry fails to deal with the ethical problems involved in selecting
books, matching them with reviewers and writing about them. Of
the thousands of books published each year, most editors can give attention
to only a few. In choosing, some
decisions are easy since much of what is published is recognizably trash, and
dismissable. But in sorting through
the rest, editors have many guidelines in common: the name of the author, the
quality of the publishing house, the “relevance” of the topic, to name a few. Most
of the books that will end up discussed in newspapers and magazines are the
lead books of major trade publishers.
These are the books readers may expect to see reviewed—because they
will have seen them advertised, because they are familiar with the authors. These are the books reviewers are most eager
to be assigned—because they think they will be interesting or important. And these are often the best books that the
editors of periodicals have on hand to review—because major publishers,
unlike many university or smaller presses, send out hundreds of unsolicited
advance copies. One
obvious result of these selection practices is that the same books are
reviewed everywhere, leaving less space for books by lesser known authors,
from smaller presses, or devoted to less topical subjects. Since the latest novel of Updike, however
mediocre, “must” be reviewed, the first-rate fiction of Rachel Ingalls may
have to be neglected. A
second, more subtle, effect is that the disproportionate space given to books
by famous authors or on controversial topics lends them an importance they
don’t necessarily possess. Even a
negative review requires that the reviewer take a book seriously; a quantity
of reviews makes it seem that this is a book we need to respond to. If a modest book like A Mother’s Work
is selected because of its topic, it is logical that reviewers end up
focusing on the topic, and the book comes to seem important, when only its
subject is. If
editors’ methods of selecting books for review tend to yield an inaccurate
picture of what books are being published and their relative value, the way
they match books with reviewers distorts the picture further. It is unlikely that many editors
deliberately seek an unfair review, but they often turn to biased reviewers,
with much the same effect. For
one thing, editors feel obliged to produce a lively book page, and they want
lively writing. As George Orwell
observed in his essay, “In Defence of the Novel,” most books will fail to
arouse in the reviewer “even a spark of interest,” and “the only truthful
review he could write would be, `This book inspires in me no thoughts
whatever.’” A biased writer is at
least an interested writer who is likely to produce an interesting review. Editors
also want informed reviews. In
specialized areas, whether politics or education, editors may turn to
experts. They are likely to be
supporters or opponents of authors’ positions, they may well have work to
protect, and they will probably come up with reviews that are biased but
intelligent. The alternative is a
general reviewer who is bright, who writes well, who has no axes to grind,
and who may come up with a review that seems fair but is naïve. Third,
editors often want reviews that reflect their own biases. There are authors that editors think are
outstanding, issues they feel strongly about.
Book review editors, after all, are as involved with books as authors
and reviewers; naturally they will use their book pages to get their own
values across. From an editor’s point of view, these choices
are understandable. Indeed, editors
may feel they have sought out a definite interest or taste, rather than a
bias, and that it is the reviewer’s responsibility to treat the book fairly. But if the choices are understandable, they
often backfire, producing unfair reviews.
Harold Bloom’s scorn for Thomas Wolfe as a writer was not
intellectually irrelevant to his New York Times February 8, 1987
review of David Herbert Donald’s critical biography of Wolfe; but the bias
came so solidly between reviewer and book that it distorted the review. The choice of mothers to review A
Mother’s Work made sense in terms of interest and expertise, but most had
too much invested in the issue to evaluate the book with detachment. And editors who select a reviewer who
shares their views on an author or issue often find it difficult to leave the
reviewer alone. Most writers can cite
instances of editors encouraging a negative or positive review, and even
changing their copy. The boundaries
where an editor’s influence ends can grow faint. In
any case, editors can at best create the opportunity for fair reviews; the
rest is up to the writers. Given the
number of pitfalls along the path, a reviewer is almost certain to land in
one, unless vigilant. As the poet and
reviewer L. E. Sissman observed in “Reviewer’s Dues,” his essay on the ethics
of reviewing, “…the sins and temptations of reviewers are legion.” In
large part, a reviewer’s problems derive from conflicting obligations. When I first began reviewing I imagined I
would be alone with a book and my own taste and judgment. But no reviewer is alone with a book. Authors, readers, and editors all have some
interest in the review and their claims are often at odds with the
reviewer’s. The reviewer wants to be
lucid, witty, right. The author might
prefer a favorable review to an honest one.
Readers want something that is interesting to read and tells them if
the book is worth buying. The book
section’s editor wants a review that is lively, indicates the book is
important (which justifies the space given to it in the periodical), and
meets the specified deadline and word length. In
serving one audience, reviewers are often unfair to another. Out of kindness to the author, they may be
so cautious that readers cannot tell if the book is being panned or
praised. To please the editor, they
may make the book out as more important and interesting than it is: readers
go out to buy a “remarkable piece of work” and come home with a
disappointingly ordinary book. To
entertain readers, and perhaps themselves, reviewers may be witty at the
author’s expense. As a reader, I
thoroughly enjoyed a review by Stephen Dobyns in which, referring to the many
murders in the book, he concluded:
“But these are the small deaths.
The deaths that bother me most are those of the trees that were cut
down to make this book.” As the
author, I think I would have wept. In
serving their own values and taste, reviewers often fail to observe where
biases distort their reviews.
Recently, a writer sent me a review of some short stories. The review began: “The women in these
stories are passive.” I was astounded. When I had read—and liked—the stories,
passive women had not struck me as a significant aspect of the fiction. Yet for the reviewer, this was the
overriding factor; for her, a story about a passive woman could not be a good
story. Clearly this was deeply felt,
an honest point of view; but was it fair? The
two main causes of unfair reviewing are a lack of time and a lack of
space. It is easy to see these as
mechanical difficulties rather than ethical difficulties; but both impose
choices that have ethical consequences.
The first of these is inaccuracy.
Reviews are filled with inaccuracies; indeed, it can be unnerving to
read reviews of books one has actually read.
In a recent New York Times Book Review roundup of some travel
books with which I was familiar, I found the reviewer had transformed one
male author into a woman and attributed another author’s comment to the wrong
person. In a rush, and reviewers are
often in a rush to meet deadlines, not only can confusions like this occur
but important aspects of a book may be missed. Moreover, writers rarely have time to do
the background reading they should to evaluate fairly the book under review
(especially for a $200 fee and with the press of other work). Equally
bad is the problem of space. In 700
words certain criticisms cannot really be defended, and reviewers must decide
whether to raise them and leave them unexplained, or omit them
altogether. Either way, without great
care, the argument may be inadequate or distorted. And as the reviews of A Mothers Work
made plain, reviewers are often not careful enough. There is a misconception that book reviewing
is easy. In fact, it is hard to review
books fairly. Indeed, given the scope
of the difficulties, perhaps it is not surprising that reviews should often
fail. But given the scope of the
failures, it is surprising how little analysis has been given to where reviewing
fails, and why—and whether the field can be improved. My
impression is that reviewers and editors try to be fair; but their concept of
unfairness is limited. They seem to
reserve the term for negative reviews, in particular those that seem unjustly
critical of a book, vicious, or mocking of its author. This kind of unfairness is scrupulously
avoided. Indeed, as Anatole Broyard
points out in his essay, “Fashions in Reviewing,” critics tend to be
excessively gentle nowadays. It is
hard to imagine finding in today’s reviews anything to compare with the
nastiness of angrier eras, such as Waugh’s remark on Auden, “His work is
awkward and dull, but it is no fault of his that he has become a public
bore”; or such epithets as “slopbucket” and “rotten garbage of licentious
thoughts” which Broyard reminds us were hurled at Leaves of Grass. But
there is, after all, a great variety of ways for reviews to be unfair, and it
seems to me we are offhand about many.
We are reluctant to call books “terrible” when they may be just
ordinarily bad, but we are comfortable calling them “excellent” or
“remarkable” when we know they are merely “good.” We will not call an author’s ideas garbage,
but we are willing to ignore them and proceed to promote our own. In
“Reviewer’s Dues,” L.E. Sissman set forth his “moral imperatives” of
reviewing, and I imagine many reviewers would be as surprised as I was at
their scope. Alongside the injunctions
we would expect, such as “Never review the work of a friend” or “Never review
the work of an enemy,” are less obvious injunctions such as “Never review a
book in a field you don’t know or care about,” “Never read the jacket copy or
the publisher’s handout before reading and reviewing a book,” “Never compete
with your subject,” “Never neglect new writers,” and “Never fail to take
chances in judgment.” I expect most
reviewers would accede to these injunctions; but I think we do not tend to
see them as moral, or their violation as unethical. It seems to me we need to acknowledge more
fully the moral nature of the field—to view each book and each review as a
moral challenge—if we hope to resist the many temptations of reviewing and to
avoid its sins.
Boston Review
August 1987 |