“Virtual random-search engine of potty humor”

Chris Lehmann is withering on Vernon God Little and the Booker prize committee:

the only genuine, hearty joke at the center of “Vernon God Little” is the one on the brave literary adjudicants of the Booker Prize, who deliberated for a record-short single hour before awarding its laurels to Pierre. You see, even before America’s most recent imperial adventures, the Booker committee has long made a punctilious point of omitting writers from the sprawling Yank continent for its acclaim (even though Americans could hardly be less loyal subjects of the Crown than DBC Pierre, aka Peter Finlay, a self-described Mexican Australian). Now, in their righteous zeal to exhibit their scorn for fictional American characters and the ready way they symbolize the commercial-cum-cultural sins of our imperial land, the Booker judges have only managed to discredit the prestige attached to their sober, pure and British honor. As Vernon himself observes as the end of this novel mercifully approaches, “Not everybody gets the irony of things.” I’ll say.


Comments are closed.