An Aesthetic Underground: A Literary Memoir by John Metcalf

I did not enjoy this book at all. I picked it up because I had heard it was witty, but I think it caused a total of one chuckle and two small smiles. I find the author's writing style tedious, particularly his habit of listing things in the middles of sentences and paragraphs (e.g. People Who Were There, Books the Author Read During This Time, The Food on the Menu). To me, this comes across as pretentious name-dropping.

More significantly, based on the information in this book and no prior conceptions, I found the author to be a thoroughly unpleasant person. I found him to be so unpleasant that after the first couple of chapters, I was holding the book horizontally in the subway instead of vertically as is my custom, so that people wouldn't see that I was reading this author's memoirs.

Now here's a strange reaction: I was going to enumerate the precise reasons why I found this author to be such an unpleasant person, but then I thought "That wouldn't really be fair. After all, we don't know his side of the story." Then I realized this is a strange reaction to an autobiography. After all, the book is the author's own word. Why would I think, even for a moment, that I don't know his side of the story? Upon reflection, I realized that I was subconsciouly getting the impression that the author isn't really the person he's portraying himself as. I was getting the impression that he was pretending to be more crotchety and curmudgeonly and closed-minded than he really is. Of course, I have no way of knowing this since the only impression I've ever had of Metcalf is from this book.

So I won't comment on what kind of a person Metcalf actually is, but I will tell you that he succeeded in representing him self in a way that caused me to have the following two reactions:

1. When Metcalf mentioned that he couldn't fathom why someone would accuse him of misogyny, the first thought that popped into my head was "Perhaps they'd read your work?"

2. When Metcalf described experiencing chest pains and getting diagnosed with angina, my immediate gut reaction was "What do you expect?"

I was also disappointed to see that Metcalf is involved with Porcupine's Quill. I've enjoyed every Porcupine's Quill book I've ever read and I find that their books tend to be physically beautiful, with well-chosen paper and attractive covers and binding. (Not that this is hugely important, mind, but there is something heartening about reading a book that is beautiful.) However, knowing that Metcalf is involved in Porcupine's Quill makes me less likely to buy any of their books, because I find him so unpleasant that I don't want to help him earn any royalties.

In all fairness, I shouldl say that the book is less dull and less tiresome as you get closer to the end, but by that point the author has already eliminated any possibility of my seeing him in a pleasant or sympathetic light. Perhaps it sounds harsh, but no matter. It is quite clear from the contents of this book that Metcalf would feel the same way about me.