Oh, my

Okay. This really isn't fair...

But damn, it's funny.

Believe I've mentioned previously, I've got this thing about really, really, really hostile reviews. They amuse me. The sheer nastiness and hauteur a thoroughly pissed-off critic can muster, that's a beautiful thing, in its own misanthropic little way.

And so, for your enjoyment, I present Tom Eaton's deliciously consistently nasty review of the latest Rowling book*.

Look at this thing. Sheer perfection. Not a single paragraph (unless the byline counts) that doesn't take a new swipe. Favourite excerpt, methinks:

Still, when they’re not being human filth, they are devouring the apparently endless sludge of platitude, cliché and middle-class smugness dished up by Rowling, which is better than them licking razor-blades and throwing hand-grenades at poor people. Enter the “at least they’re reading” school of thought, clung to by parents who have clearly long since surrendered their parenting duties to teachers and television.

It is a philosophy that has spawned a curious piece of logic: if you get children reading schlock, they’ll grow into adults who will explore the classics. This is rather like hoping that if you get your child addicted to crack, he’ll quickly develop a fine nose for wines and a taste for haute cuisine.

— Tom Eaton, Buckets of banality, a dash of honey, now turn this turgid tome to money!

Ouch.

Now, for the record, no, I don't really think this of Rowling. And Eaton's hauteur, in this case, smells strongly of a certain anti-escapist snobbery I and others have noted previously. I think fantasy's got its place (obviously) and can certainly justify the cost of the paper it's printed on, done artfully enough. And my opinion of Rowling, specifically is that's certainly better than average children's fare, judging from what little I've read, really. Think it was a Guardian critic (can't seem to find her this morning) who said it best, saying roughly: listen, they're not bad. Not great, but not bad. And if everyone hadn't been jumping up and down and saying these books are the greatest thing since sliced bread, we'd still have the perspective to say so.

Also, for the record, I actually lined up this time at midnight. Yep. I did. Though, honestly, this was only because (follow this) (i) my lovely wife has been following the series pretty closely, doesn't want some loose-lipped twit or other to give away who gets killed before she can read it for herself, and so (ii) preordered for pickup at the crazy midnight 'opening' at a funky little toy store down the street so she can rush through it quickly enough to make this unlikely, but then (iii) conked out early (she's not nocturnal like me), and muttered, sleepily, honey, could you please go pick it up, thanks?

And so, dutiful husband that I am, I did, notwithstanding that I'm about as tired as a lot of other people of hearing about somebody who's outselling every other novelist on the freakin' planet (oh no, no jealousy here, dahlink). And saw a line full (musta been a few hundred, I'd say) of people, waiting at midnight to read a book, of all things. And thus concur, roughly, with those saying: that's probably a good thing, even if the prose is a bit flat, the plot a bit predictable (six books in, same characters, go fig it's getting a bit repetitive), the whole thing getting a bit old...

Okay. Okay. Enough slashing at tall poppies. Haven't read it yet. Probably won't get to it for some weeks at best, so can't say. Leaving the subject, now.

(*Holly points out, perceptively as always, it really is no such thing.)