David Sedaris writes principally for The New Yorker. Urbane, then, American, smart. But is he a memoirist, a fabulist or an essayist? He is most often described as a humorist, but he’s not funny like, say, Woody Allen. He’s no Stephen Leacock. The aim of his writing is not to make the reader laugh.
Which is not to say that there isn’t at least a chuckle or two and usually a guffaw in each of the 26 pieces that comprise this book. While studying Life in the UK in order to apply for Indefinite Leave to stay here, Sedaris learns much that the rest of us do not know: ‘I learned that people below the age of 16 cannot deliver milk in the UK, but I don’t think I learned why. It was just one of those weird English injustices.’ This is wonderfully dry and clever and made me snort.
He is a staunch anti-Republican.
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