How was I to exorcize my fascination-my Franzination, if you will-and find some sort of catharsis from my latest career spiral? I mean, sure, I could decimate my grocery budget on one of Franzen’s hardbacks. His novels, he says, are simply too long and girthy, too interior and flavorful, too full of blood and viscera and passion, and at thirty bucks a hardcover-twenty for a paperback-“there’s only one way to get it… you’re going to actually have to be a reader.” But just as I finished copying and pasting this quote from the New York Times (and caught a glimpse of the next paragraph: something about his fear of electric cars), I accidentally hit the alt + left-arrow keys, effectively backpaging me out of my last free article.
“Most of the people who have complaints with me aren’t reading me,” or at least, that’s what Jonathan Franzen claims.
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