What is it about New Yorkers? And why is it that novels about New Yorkers are driving me batty? Maybe it’s the endless introspection. Maybe it’s that there’s always the requisite gay friend. Maybe it’s that, well, maybe it’s just that New Yorkers seem to feel that there’s no other place in the world worth living, and while that may be true for them at least, it all seems to lead to a certain genre, if you will, of modern American literature: The New Yorkocity genre.
Okay, it’s time for me to get off my high horse and make a terrible confession. I actually liked this–though not without reserve. Chances are, you’ve already read this for yourself–or at least have read reviews–so I’ll spare you the synopsis.
The good:
Well-written
Somewhat interesting plotline (it gets better)
Some gorgeously rendered scenes
The bad:
Archetypal characters
Endless introspection that doesn’t make them any more real
The kid? Totally unbelievable
Anyone else?
2 Comments
This genre appears in nonfiction too: namely, Adam Gopnik’s “Through the Children’s Gate,” bleah. Thanks for the handy pro/con review; I’ve been meaning to read this and can probably overlook the unbelievable kid if it’s well-written. I do like NYC so it’s not really a genre I mind.
I think it’s a way of life! And actually, I don’t mind it either; it’s just that the novels blur together in my head.