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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 |