And I'm Not As Young

The Idea Of Some Kind Of Objectively Constant, Universal Literary Value Is Seductive. It Feels Real. It Feels Like A Stone Cold Fact That In Search Of Lost Time, By Marcel Proust, Is Better Than A Shore Thing, By Snooki. And It May Be; Snooki Definitely Has More One-star Reviews On Amazon. But If Literary Value Is Real, No One Seems To Be Able To Locate It Or Define It Very Well. We're Increasingly Adrift In A Grey Void Of Aesthetic Relativism.

I Don't Know If I've Ever Derived Such An Immediate Sense Of Calm And Well-being From Any Book As I Did From 'right Ho, Jeeves.' It Was Like I Was Pac-man And The Book Was A Power-up.

We're Wired To Expect The World To Be Brighter And More Meaningful And More Obviously Interesting Than It Actually Is. And When We Realize That It Isn't, We Start Looking Around For The Real World.

About As Close You Can Get To The Perfect Cerebral Thriller: Searingly Smart, Ridiculously Funny, And Fast As Hell... I Defy Anybody To Read The First Page And Not Keep Going To The Last.

She Tortured Everybody Around Her, But Only Because She Was More Tortured Than Anyone.