Here’s an extraordinary passage from Steven Wright’s recent novel Harold (2023):

From his conversations with his grandfather and comments he made he learned that being in love with someone was a very tricky thing and was like gambling with the idea of yourself. It was a package deal of positive and negative emotions—a pendulum festival—like being served a birthday cake that might have poison in it.

Yes, that Steven Wright. I can’t recall if Conan O’Brien made a comparison to Vonnegut, during their recent podcast chat (which is where I heard about the book), but I’m sure he would have observed as much eventually because there is a remarkable (unforced) likeness.

No one likes a critic, the Economist noted last week, but they do provide a service to readers and we should all “mourn the death of the hatchet job.” I think we’re plenty cruel to one another all the same but it’s curious to see an argument like this that does not mention participation trophies and a general preference for comfort over curiosity (which has, in part, fuelled the decline in readers). As for criticism, let’s honour Martin Amis’s call to arms about cliché and dispraise in direct proportion to laziness.