Last Night in Twisted River by John Irving (New York: Random House, 2009) 

Book reviewers have agendas. 

Those who are assigned books to review by newspaper and magazine editors are paid to provide readers with a well-crafted analysis of a book’s merits and deficiencies. Their judgments – especially in the case of a successful author like John Irving – are often harsh or even vicious. They’re more than willing to piss off another writer to showcase their own literary skills and talent. After all, everyone is trying to grab a piece of the pie. 

Those, like me, who work for free can write anything that pops into our heads. But we also have agendas. We possibly harbor a secret desire to get paid for our work. More likely, we just want readers. We know that we can’t compete with the high-priced call girls in fancy hotels, and that we’ll probably spend the rest of our days hooking johns on the mean streets where you’re as likely to get beat up and tossed into the gutter as you are to earn a greasy sawbuck; but we’re always looking for the next fix of attention. Being read is a hopeless addiction. 

So what are book reviewers saying about John Irving’s Last Night in Twisted River? 

First, the good. The San Francisco Chronicle’s reviewer lavishly praised its “cunning narrative structure,” calling Irving’s book “an impressive feat of sustained narrative craftsmanship.” The Los Angeles Times’ reviewer shamelessly lusted over its “full-throated, hot-blooded and clear-eyed” narrative and its “bracing clarity of focus.” Whoa, easy, partner. 

Next, the bad. The New York Times’ reviewer excoriated Irving for packaging “his characters in simplistic generalizations” and “distracting readers from what otherwise could be a moving, cohesive story” in a failed attempt to write a “serious” novel. The Washington Post’s reviewer pulled out the stops: “this superb story soon breaks up and disintegrates in what must be the most disappointing wipeout of Irving ’s career.” Try to convince me that this reviewer doesn’t love his job. 

Now, the ugly. Remember, I don’t have to write a thorough analysis of the book. I can write what I like. And I liked it. That’s it. What did you expect for free? 

What really concerns me – apart from the 554-page brilliance of Last Night in Twisted River – is that book reviewers can arrive at such wholly different conclusions. I understand that appreciation of art is a subjective process; but are there no objective standards by which we evaluate books? Can book reviews be polar opposites, and still be valid? Who is right? What’s the purpose of book reviews, or the measure of accountability for book reviewers, if no one is expected to be right? Are book reviews simply glorified advertisements for publishers? Books are expensive. I don’t want to spend thirty bucks and waste a few days reading a book that ends up being a dud because the book reviewer at the Los Angeles Times had an orgasm reading it. 

The truth is that book reviewers are no different than readers. They just get paid for their opinions. They shouldn’t claim to be right about books. Harold Bloom claimed the crown of book reviewers by writing The Western Canon. But I don’t want to read Dr. Samuel Johnson; and I’m a little ticked off that Raymond Chandler was left out of the canon. 

A good book review is like an exhaust fan on the roof of a restaurant. It blows the aromas from the kitchen into the street where passersby can get a whiff. If you despise the smell of zucchini casserole, like me, you’ll probably keep walking. But if your schnauzer picks up the scent of baked lasagna and spicy sausages simmering in marinara sauce, you might be slurping noodles before you know what hit you. 

John Irving’s Last Night in Twisted River is a feast. He may have slipped some zucchini past me; but I didn’t notice. I was enjoying myself too much to be bothered with an occasional undesirable vegetable dish or an eccentric condiment. When you’re invited to a feast, you don’t complain about salty nuts.