Chuck Klosterman’s volumes of collected essays always leave me feeling ambivalent. He is undoubtedly intelligent, and reminiscent of David Foster Wallace in style and approach, though DFW is at least several of orders of magnitude better. Lest you think I’m being unfair, this is also Klosterman’s assessment in one of the essays in Eating the Dinosaur where he talks about irony in popular culture. But every time I read Klosterman, I end up feeling somehow insulted; perhaps it’s his long history of apologetics for awful cultural phenomena—one of his previous books included a long essay in which he praised MTV’s The Real World to the skies—or perhaps its some of the semantic or epistemological jumps he makes in order to segue from the illustrative object of his essay to its philosophical point.
I’m no stranger to the Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. A lot of people are no strangers to the 5-book trilogy, either, which is why there was quite a ballyhoo when Eoin Colfer was selected to continue the series on behalf of the late Douglas Adams.
There are, therefore, a number of questions to be asked about And Another Thing…. The first is “Was Eoin Colfer a good choice to take up the mantle of Douglas Adams?” The second is “Should the Hitchhiker’s series have been continued at all?” The final is “Was the book decent?”

Audrey Niffenegger skyrocketed into literary prominence with the publication of The Time-Traveler’s Wife, which was the the debut novel for this middle-aged artist and teacher. She is not, as you might imagine, a conventional literary rockstar, but her name graced a lot of tongues for a lot of years.
Niffenegger was criticized by some for an unimpressive writing style—Michelle Griffin of The Age called her writing “pedestrian,” which I think just about hits the mark—but it was difficult to spend any time appreciating Niffenegger’s lack or surfeit of rhetorical flair when the novel itself was so damned interesting. It was, after all, little more than a love story with contrived love story emotions. But that little soupçon of science fictional intrigue turned something “pedestrian” into one of the most compelling pieces of fiction in recent years.
Because of the explosive popularity of The Time Traveler’s Wife, just about every publisher in the world—including, I imagine, the 25 or so that rejected her first manuscript—wanted to secure rights to her sophomore effort, Her Fearful Symmetry. I approached the book with some trepidation; knowing the singular character of her first book, would I be able to appreciate this new one for its own merits? Could Niffenegger once again create a story so compelling it makes her readers forget that her talent as a writer (as distinct from a creator of plots or characters) is only slightly better than average?

I’ve read Consider the Lobster before, though my review at the time wallowed a bit too much in a sort of fawning—and brief—incredulity at the author, rather than a substantive look at the book.
Since these essays are themselves reviews of sorts—dissections, really—it would be too easy for a review of Consider the Lobster to enter into a the territory of parody, being a review of a review of a review (more on this later).
This is also the first book of David Foster Wallace’s that I’ve [re-]read since his death in September of 2008. That knowledge, though it really shouldn’t, will undeniably change the character of his pieces in the minds of readers. There are fewer dramatic revelations than, say, his essay on depression or—according to my brother—his book about infinity, Everything and More. We are unlikely, in other words, to glean any particularly exciting or dreadful knowledge about DFW’s mysterious inner being from his pithy comments about the American pornography industry. But Consider the Lobster nonetheless contains some pieces which are superfluous in quality, and it’s worth handling some of the major ones individually rather than in aggregate.

Any time one deals with a book which has been translated, you’re opening up a whole new can of worms above and beyond the quality of the book itself. I noted this with some hesitancy when I reviewed Orhan Pamuk’s Snow—or, more accurately, a translation of Orhan Pamuk’s Snow.
Biblical translation is even tougher: the politics it involves go beyond mere word choice and touch things which people hold as sacrosanct. Maybe you think I’m exaggerating, but consider as an example the movement of Christians who believe that the only correct version of the Bible is the King James Version. Mess with canon at your own peril.
