A missable after-party

There’s one problem with book reviewing these days. No, it’s nothing to do with an industry that’s cosier than Joseph Fritzl’s cellar or columns that are dropping inches faster than Vanessa Feltz’s waist (post gastric band).

It’s the books themselves.

Novels that have the potential to be hugely irritating usually come equipped with two safety guards that make them impervious to attack. Debuts are particularly good examples. Any young modern novelist worth his salt sprinkles his work with a good pinch of irony. And then whacks on a glossy layer of self-reflexivity. These techniques ensure that one’s too busy thinking about the production of the text (by the narrator, author, editor and reader) to pay any attention to the text itself. And even if you did manage to think about what the text meant, you wouldn’t be sure whether it was ironic.