When I encountered an excerpt from wunderkind J. S. Foer's Everything is Illuminated in the New Yorker, I was dazzled. The writing was witty, focused, intelligent, and emotionally rich.
Now I've read the whole book, and I'm deeply divided about this Jekyll-Hydish performance. The good parts are still excellent. Jonfen's Ukrainian adventures in search of Augustine are beautifully managed — although I must say that the joke about Alex's English, so wonderful in the excerpt, quickly grew wearisome. But the interspersed history of the shtetl of Trachimbrod is just plain bad. It's boring, embarrassing, and imitative, consisting not only of helpings of I. B. Singer and of the least attractive aspects of Marquez and his numerous unmagical epigonoi, but also of an unhealthy dollop of supermarket-checkout prose. Can Foer discipline his talent, find his own voice, and move into the big leagues? It would be tragic if he continues to indulge his genius for imitation. Or perhaps he'll be both good and bad, like Larry McMurtry, who's written world-class novels (Leaving Cheyenne, Lonesome Dove) but has also squandered his talent on pounds and pounds of glossy trash. Time will tell.
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