I don't know James Wolcott and had never heard of James Wolcott before reading this post by Ben Casnocha. I don't know Lena Dunham and had never heard of Lena Dunham until various intertunnel locales I visit started mentioning her recently. Something about a book she wrote. Anyway, Casnocha points to this Wolcott review of Dunham's book, and offers this excerpt:
Callow, grating, and glibly nattering as much of the rest of is, its impact is a series of glancing blows. The self-revelations and gnarly disclosures are stowed alongside the psycho-twaddle, affirmational platitudes, and show-offy candor of someone avid to be liked and acceptedon her own terms, of course, for who she is in all her flawed, bountiful glory. Can’t blame her for that. It’s what most talented exhibitionists crave and strive for beneath the light of the silvery moon and the mystic ministrations of Oprah, and Dunham’s ability to put it over is as impressive in its way as Madonna’s wire-muscled will-to-power and James Franco’s iron-butterfly dilettantism. Beneath the surface slop and ditzy tics, Dunham possesses an unimpeachable work ethic, a knowledgeable respect for senior artists (as evidenced by her friendship and collaboration with the illustrator Hilary Knight and her endorsement of the memoirs of Diana Athill), and a canny knack for converting her personal piques, plights, bellyflops, hamster-wheel OCD compulsions, and body-image issues into serial dramedy. That professional nasal drips such as columnist Ross Douthat interpret this as symptomatic of an entire generation’s narcissistic disorder says more about them than her. (Douthat probably would have disapproved of James Dean too, told him to stand up straight.)
Think I might be reading more from James Wolcott.