No stars. Of all the bad recent books on Mary lamb, and her inseparable brother, Charles, this was easily the most disappointing. Ackroyd has become the premier literary hack of his generation; churning out books, fiction and not, of such embarrassing insufficiency, both as narrative and history, as to reduce all other profligates to pikers. Ackroyd's formula is now basically a first person Wiki -- with less fact checking. This hurried little number recycles every ugly psychological supposition and is only a novel in the sense of not requiring specific acknowledgement of the second and third rate theorists from whom these ideas were nicked. And did I mention? not really even much to do with the Lambs. An embarrassing effort, even by Ackroyd's increasingly lax standards.
Showing posts with label Peter Ackroyd. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Peter Ackroyd. Show all posts
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
Monday, January 16, 2012
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