Curtis Sittenfeld breaks the bad news. It seems that publishing a book, even if it is, simply put, the best, most groundbreaking work written in a generation-or at least since Andrew’s latest-is not the way to “score” with “babes.” (Or, in Sittenfeld’s case, with dudes.) So why write books at all? Why not communicate via smoke signals, or tattooed passenger pigeons? Thanks to the pleasing visual properties of pulp, book-writing (not to be confused with “book-larnin’,” which has no place in the future anarchistic “Badlands” civilization Ross, Steve, and I hope to build through Social Security privatization and massive tax cuts, though they’re sure to deny it) remains the best way to transmit “mad knowledge” concerning the meritocracy and American life. I’m going to write at great length about Ross’s book, mainly because it’s officially one of my all-time favorites. For now, I’ll just point you to it. It’ll arrive too late for this Christmas, but not for next Christmas. Or, for the nontraditional spiritual practitioners among you, “All Hail Various Lovable Animals Day,” which conveniently falls of March 3rd, the day after the release of “Privilege: Harvard and the Education of the Ruling Class.” Buy it now. Buy ten copies for your friends, ten more for your enemies. To college admissions officers, I say buy a copy for yourself, for junior, and for every last one of your students, all of whom ought to know what the hell it is they’re getting into. High school students, I promise you, this book was literally written with you in mind. I mean, it probably wasn’t “literally,” but it may as well have been. (Ask Ross.) If you want the straight dope, the inside skinny, the real deal, you will get it here, I promise you.
Lastly*, there’s just one book I’d mention in the same breath as “Privilege.” It’s “Goodbye, Columbus.” Trust me. Ross’s book is nonfiction, but it has all the pathos, the warmth, the keen intellect, and the gut-busting hilarity that made Roth’s outsider story an affecting generational statement in the non-lame sense.
* By “lastly,” I mean only that this first of many, many plugs is drawing to a close. And yes, all of these links are going to the same place. Take the hint, Mack.
A SPECIAL NOTE TO MY GENERATION: We’ve had differences in the past. Back in elementary school, I sensed that the New Kids on the Block presaged the Menudo-ization of our national life, and I chose to “stand athwart History yelling ‘Stop!'” Being exceptionally small for my age, this did little good. History marched on. I kept it street. Sadly, this led others to treat me as a major thoroughfare. That is, I was trampled underfoot. Chuck Taylors, Doc Martens, Air Jordans, Birkenstocks, stylish leather Coach slip-ons, Adidas Sambas, and other generational footprints have left welts across my back and my chest. Suffice to say, I was, well, chagrined by all of this. But now, there’s a chance, however fleeting, for real reconciliation. If you name Douthat our generational spokesman, all will be forgiven. What, do you want it to be Gideon Yago? Hillary Duff? Jenna Bush? Seriously dude.
— Reihan Salam
The Dish 