Repeat After Me

I don’t read all that much book criticism, and, contributions to summer reading lists not withstanding, I probably read far fewer books than I should. A three book month is an accomplishment for me, and too many barely reach the loneliest number.

Much of the book criticism I do read is published in explicitly ideological publications; National Review, The New Republic, The American Prospect, Reason, and the like. The goal of publications such as these (at least with regards to political tomes) is, often enough, to filter a book’s arguments through the magazine’s ideological predispositions. For writers of these reviews, taking sides isn’t merely allowed, it is presumed.

Other publications without declared biases—The New York Times, for example (let’s save the debate over their alleged slant for another day, or better yet, never)—face a somewhat different task when reviewing books that take political or ideological stances. But just what is that task? It seems to me that it is to report briefly on what the book says, engage with its announced ideas, attempt to draw out any underdeveloped thoughts or low-lying implications, and assess the effectiveness of its ideas and its presentation using evidence from the text. In other words, it should be criticism.

But too often, we get uninspired drivel like this, William Grimes’ NYT review of former New Republic editor Peter Beinart’s book on liberals and terror, The Good Fight. It is little more than a ho-hum summary of Beinart’s arguments followed by a tidy, wholly unsupported conclusion that Beinart’s book is just nifty. Like a middle school book report, there is no engagement, no implication, no insight—just a single, blurb-ready statement that calls the book “a bracing read, a good two-fisted polemic intended to stiffen the Democratic spine,” and a final note that this might prove difficult, a thought only slightly more revelatory than if A.O. Scott had announced that Quentin Tarantino enjoyed making allusions to other movies.

None of the Times’ movie or music critics could possibly get away with turning in such a passive, unchallenging press release and calling it criticism. I’d have minded far less if the essay was a frothy love letter to Beinart’s undeniable brilliance—as long as it actually engaged the ideas! But we get no such thing. This isn’t criticism; it’s perfunctory repetition.