A few years ago, there was a lot of talk about the idea of “The Great Rock n’ Roll Novel” and how it had not yet been written. “I've yet to read a novel that convincingly sums up the experience and the value of making popular music,” wrote The Guardian’s Graham Thompson, “or that captures the weird, savage compulsion that keeps everyone from Bloc Party to Bob Dylan traipsing around the world, year-in year-out.” In fact, Thompson wondered whether such a novel could ever be written. “Perhaps pop music is essentially worthless as an abstract idea and must be experienced at first hand to have value.”

Janet Maslin pans Joshua Ferris' new novel The Unnamed in the Times today, citing "authorial overkill" and "writerly preciousness" as reasons. She lost authority on the subject, however, in her very first sentence, when she dismissed Ferris' first book, Then We Came To the End, as "charming but weightless." That makes me think she may not have read Then We Came To the End very closely. Or at least not closely enough in the beautiful and powerful central chapter, where we follow a lonely, career-minded advertising executive facing a diagnosis of breast cancer with the support of her commitment-averse boyfriend-who breaks up with her a few days before [...]