{"product_id":"the-new-york-times-book-review-isbn-9780593234617","title":"The New York Times Book Review","description":"\u003cb\u003eA “delightful” (\u003ci\u003eVanity Fair\u003c\/i\u003e) collection from the longest-running, most influential book review in America,\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cb\u003efeaturing\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cb\u003eits best, funniest, strangest, and most memorable coverage over the past 125 years.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSince its first issue on October 10, 1896, \u003ci\u003eThe New York Times Book Review\u003c\/i\u003e has brought the world of ideas to the reading public. It is the publication where authors have been made, and where readers first encountered the classics that have enriched their lives.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eNow the editors have curated the \u003ci\u003eBook Review\u003c\/i\u003e’s dynamic 125-year history, which is essentially the story of modern American letters. Brimming with remarkable reportage and photography, this beautiful book collects interesting reviews, never-before-heard anecdotes about famous writers, and spicy letter exchanges. Here are the first takes on novels we now consider masterpieces, including a long-forgotten pan of \u003ci\u003eAnne of Green Gables \u003c\/i\u003eand a rave of \u003ci\u003eMrs. Dalloway\u003c\/i\u003e, along with reviews and essays by Langston Hughes, Eudora Welty, James Baldwin, Nora Ephron, and more.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eWith scores of stunning vintage photographs, many of them sourced from the \u003ci\u003eTimes\u003c\/i\u003e’s own archive, readers will discover how literary tastes have shifted through the years—and how the \u003ci\u003eBook Review\u003c\/i\u003e’s coverage has shaped so much of what we read today.“A fascinating selection of reviews, letters, interviews, essays, announcements, book lists, bits of gossip and op-ed pieces published in the supplement since its first appearance on Oct. 10, 1896 . . . An ebullient celebration of literature.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eKirkus Reviews\u003c\/i\u003e (starred review)\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“[A] meticulously crafted celebration of the written word . . . Each chapter is full of entertaining reviews and book covers, plus delightful photos. Literature lovers are in for a real treat.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly \u003c\/i\u003e(starred review)\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cb\u003eTina Jordan \u003c\/b\u003eis the deputy editor of \u003ci\u003eThe New York Times Book Review\u003c\/i\u003e. Before joining \u003ci\u003eThe Times,\u003c\/i\u003e Tina was the longtime books editor at \u003ci\u003eEntertainment Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e, where she worked since the magazine's founding.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eNoor Qasim\u003c\/b\u003e is a writer and editor. From 2020 to 2021, she served as the editing fellow of \u003ci\u003eThe New York Times Book Review\u003c\/i\u003e.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eThe New York Times\u003c\/i\u003e \u003c\/b\u003eis dedicated to helping people understand the world through on-the-ground, expert, and deeply reported independent journalism. Their mission is simple: They seek the truth and help people understand the world. This mission is rooted in their belief that great journalism has the power to make each reader's life richer and more fulfilling, and all of society stronger and more just. \u003ci\u003eThe Times\u003c\/i\u003e has received 130 Pulitzer Prizes.\u003cb\u003eA Review of the Review\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHalfway through \u003ci\u003eLolita\u003c\/i\u003e, Humbert Humbert—relaxed, triumphant and a mere pinch of pages away from his downfall—stops to extol the wonders of America. He has dragged his 12-year-old quarry on a road trip across the country, a perversion of a honeymoon. He slips into French to marvel at all they have seen. “\u003ci\u003eNous connûmes\u003c\/i\u003e,” he purrs, borrowing “a Flaubertian intonation”—\u003ci\u003ewe came to know\u003c\/i\u003e—and enumerates each guesthouse and motel, each unsmiling landlady.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003eNous connûmes\u003c\/i\u003e—we came to know. It has felt like the mood of the moment, with the reappraisal of monuments, real and metaphorical, in our midst—writers included. There have been fresh considerations of William Faulkner, Flannery O’Connor, David Foster Wallace and others, as their private papers and private lives have come to light. \u003ci\u003eNous connûmes\u003c\/i\u003e Nabokov himself; this past year brought forth a swarm of studies and, in March, an anthology dedicated to\u003ci\u003e Lolita\u003c\/i\u003e alone. The morality of the novel, and of its creator, are litigated with hot urgency, as if Nabokov, dead some 40 years, lingers in the dock somewhere. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNot a surprising moment, then, to be asked to explore the archives of The New York Times Book Review on the occasion of its 125th anniversary, a moment for celebration but also for some more challenging introspection, a moment to examine the publication’s legacy in full. My brief, you could say, was to review the Book Review, to consider the coverage of “women, people of color, L.G.B.T.Q. writers” and changing mores in criticism. But what revelatory news could I possibly bring? The word “archive” derives from the ancient Greek arkheion, sometimes translated as “house of the ruler.” Who wanders there with any illusions? \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhat could those reviews contain? Some misjudgments, to be sure—masterpieces misunderstood in their time. A few preternaturally sensitive assessments. Fluorescent condescension and stereotype. Above all, the pleasant and dubious satisfactions of feeling superior to the past. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd yet. In recent years, The Times has faced scrutiny of the racial and gender imbalance in its reviews. One survey, which looked at nearly 750 books assessed by The Times in 2011, across all genres, found that nearly 90 percent of the authors assessed were white. But what about the reviews themselves: the language, the criteria? When “women, people of color, L.G.B.T.Q. writers” were reviewed, how was their work positioned? What patterns can we trace, what consequences? And what do we do with this knowledge—how can it be made useful? When we come to know, what do we really see?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e To wander through 125 years of book reviews is to endure assault by adjective. All the\u003ci\u003e fatuous\u003c\/i\u003e books, the \u003ci\u003efrequently\u003c\/i\u003e brilliant, the \u003ci\u003edisappointing,\u003c\/i\u003e the \u003ci\u003eessential\u003c\/i\u003e. The adjectives one only ever encounters in a review \u003ci\u003e(indelible, risible\u003c\/i\u003e), the archaic descriptors (\u003ci\u003esumptuous\u003c\/i\u003e). So many \u003ci\u003emasterpieces\u003c\/i\u003e, so many duds—now enjoying quiet anonymity.    \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhat did I find? Those misjudged masterpieces—on Dreiser’s \u003ci\u003eSister Carrie\u003c\/i\u003e: “It is a book one can very well get along without reading.” The sensitive assessments—consistently by the critic and former editor of the Book Review, John Leonard, an early and forceful champion of writers like Toni Morrison, John Edgar Wideman and Grace Paley. Fluorescent condescension and stereotype—on N. Scott Momaday’s \u003ci\u003eHouse Made of Dawn\u003c\/i\u003e, which went on to win the 1969 Pulitzer Prize for fiction: “American Indians do not write novels and poetry as a rule or teach English in top-ranking universities either. But we cannot be patronizing.” Oh, no? \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe inaugural issue of the Book Review was published in 1896. It featured 10 reviews, all unsigned, along with lists of new books and literary happenings. An essay in the form of an imaginary conversation poked fun at novelists’ stock phrases. On Laurence Sterne: “that ‘shorn lamb’ of his has been pulled hither and thither enough to be the toughest jerk mutton in the world.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSince 1924, the Book Review has run bylines. Contributors are not, for the most part, professional critics (a vanishing breed) but what Ford Madox Ford called “artist-practitioners”—the moonlighting novelist or specialist. Curiously, many seem to speak in one voice throughout the years, with that signature, seignorial remove. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThat tone isn’t merely a function of the rhythms of the short review; it flows from the house style. Reviewers almost never use “I,” long discouraged by the paper, but the magisterial “we.” What flaws did “we” discover in this slight but promising novel? Why do “we” go to fiction? (This last example from my—our?—own work.) \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“We” can be a coercive little word. A forced embrace, a leash. It’s Humbert’s pronoun—\u003ci\u003e“nous”\u003c\/i\u003e— his way of speaking for Lolita. It presumes consensus; it presumes that “we” are the same. Margo Jefferson, a former book critic at The Times, has spoken about the peculiarity of the convention. “‘We’ meant that our readers were our students and our followers,” she said. “It implied we were omniscient narrators, leading them toward the best, the wisest, the most educated conclusions.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHow unselfconsciously, how\u003ci\u003e affectionately\u003c\/i\u003e, that notion of consensus was once assumed—and inscribed. How specifically the reader of the Book Review was imagined and catered to. In a summer reading column in 1915, the Book Review recommended titles for the “intellectual enjoyment that appeals to ‘the tired business man’ on holiday.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAs I reached midcentury in the archives, I kept bumping into one particular reviewer with a plump, paternalistic style and the Dickensian name of Marshall Sprague. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSprague! I’d innocently turn a corner and find you back at it, comparing a woman writer to a trout—\u003ci\u003eas praise. \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e \u003cbr\u003eHis own best-known book—a study of the frontier (what else?)—was titled \u003ci\u003eA Gallery of Dudes\u003c\/i\u003e, a fair description of these pages at the time. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e(A moment to appreciate the obituary of Francis Whiting Halsey, the Book Review’s first editor, whose death in 1919 was presented as a sort of apotheosis of literary masculinity: “Overwork on a 10-volume history of the European War contributed to his last illness.”) It was a clubby world put into a panic by the success of “the lit’ry lady,” as a 1907 article termed her. Early issues of the Book Review were lively with alarm. Why Are Women Using Male Pseudonyms? How Dare Women Write From the Point of View of Male Characters? Why Are Women’s Books Selling So Well? \u003ci\u003e“Is Woman Crowding Out Man From the Field of Fiction?”\u003c\/i\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe suave “we” would not yet accommodate women, or others, and the reviewer acted as sentry, patrolling the pronoun’s borders. For years the novelist Anthony Burgess, chief fiction reviewer of \u003ci\u003eThe Observer\u003c\/i\u003e in London, was said to decide which women would be permitted to leave the “ghetto” of female writing. The longtime Times staff critic Orville Prescott enjoyed prerogatives of his own. (The paper’s staff critics, of which I am now one, operate independently of the weekly Book Review.) In 1948, Prescott dismissed Gore Vidal’s novel \u003ci\u003eThe City and the Pillar\u003c\/i\u003e as “pornography”—an odd claim given the lack of sex in the book. I suspect that what Prescott really found so objectionable was the absence of shame in a love story between two men. Meanwhile, in the Book Review, C.V. Terry took a different view, but no less ugly: “A novel as sterile as its protagonist.” Vidal and his publishers claimed that the Book Review refused to run paid advertisements and had him blacklisted for years.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Truman Capote’s Southern Gothic \u003ci\u003eOther Voices, Other Rooms\u003c\/i\u003e was published that same month, and featured that famous author photograph: young Capote, lovely and sulky, splayed across the back jacket, making the kind of eye contact that can still make you flush, some 70 years on. Carlos Baker’s review was an extended shudder. “The story,” he wrote, “did not need to be told, except to get it out of the author’s system.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNote that language. It reappears in the reviews of the interlopers—the nonwhite writers, women writers and especially L.G.B.T.Q. writers. Their books are not written, they are not crafted—they are expelled, they are excreted, almost involuntarily. James Purdy’s work—his “homosexual fiction” (this from a Wilfrid Sheed review)—represented “the sick outpouring of a confused, adolescent, distraught mind” (that from Prescott). Katherine Anne Porter’s work received a clinical and distressing diagnosis: “The pellucid trickle has lately clouded.” The charge can be twisted into a form of perverse praise, as if writing were a sort of bodily instinct. In a review of \u003ci\u003eDust Tracks on a Road\u003c\/i\u003e, John Chamberlain wrote that the “saucy, defiant” Zora Neale Hurston was “born with a tongue in her head, and she has never failed to use it.”","brand":"Clarkson Potter","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46303794004197,"sku":"NP9780593234617","price":50.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780593234617.jpg?v=1767740693","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/the-new-york-times-book-review-isbn-9780593234617","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}