Of the 35 glowing blurbs, the one that describes the book as “droll” is fair and accurate; the comparison to the blandly affable Garrison Keillor is appropriate, but the three blurbs that compare Sedaris to Mark Twain are at best wrong and at worst embarrassing—these blurbers may not have read much Mark Twain but they have probably read each other’s blurbs. This lite book of anecdotes is a formulaic and effortless read. My disappointment is not with the author, who makes no claim to virtuosity, but with a publishing culture that aggressively champions one or two safe books a year to such a bizarre extent that it feels as though all other interesting writing is suppressed. There are a few moments when the prose transcends funny anecdote to become smart writing (the use of the word “suffocated” on page 122), but as social commentary it is superficial and as a comic work it does not approach Donald Barthelme, Ian Frazier, or Mark Leyner. There is no way that David Sedaris is the funniest writer; alive, in America, or in North America, as five of these blurbs variously assert. And I’d be interested to know specifically which essays in this book could have made these reviewers cry.

Borrow this book to read if you are too feverish and ill to concentrate, or too depressed or overwhelmed to read something substantial, or if you only have 2 hours to read and trouble concentrating. If you want to read one of the best books published recently read Chomsky’s 9-11 or Chiang’s Story of Your Life and Others. Otherwise read Mark Twain. What can I say? I like this book just fine, but how can I help but be disappointed by the unchallenging writing that is suffocated by the medley of critical admiration that encrusts it?

(Just to be fair, I will read Barrel Fever and Naked. )

(And rip the covers off first.)