In the latest issue of the London Spectator, Paul Johnson, while meditating on the scarcity of good new novels, delivers the following concise and delightful assessment of a celebrated literary figure and her oeuvre:
The other week I found myself sitting at supper next to someone called Zadie Smith. I thought her rather snooty, to be honest, but gave a novel of hers a try. Alas! I do not want to dwell in the world of multicultural, multisexual squatters, speaking a difficult argot, thinking alien and (to me) nasty thoughts.
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