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Nobody's Looking at You Reviews

Nobody's Looking at You by Janet Malcolm

Nobody's Looking at You


Janet Malcolm

Score pending

2 reviews

Imprint: Farrar, Straus & Giroux Inc
Publisher: Farrar, Straus & Giroux Inc
Publication date: 31 Dec 2099
ISBN: 9780374279493

Janet Malcolm's previous collection, Forty-One False Starts: Essays on Artists and Writers, was "unmistakably the work of a master" (The New York Times Book Review). Like Forty-One False StartsNobody's Looking at You brings together previously uncompiled pieces, mainly from The New Yorker and The New York Review of Books

3 stars out of 5
Ian Sansom
27 Apr 2019

"Fearless, curious, endlessly entertaining"

The range is impressive, if slightly humourless and bewildering, like flicking through an entire New Yorker without the light relief of the cartoons, the casuals, or Anthony Lane... Malcolm, now in her mid-eighties, may be destined to be remembered only for the opening line to The Journalist and the Murderer — ‘Every journalist who is not too stupid or too full of himself to notice what is going on knows that what he does is morally indefensible’ — but there’s absolutely nothing indefensible about what she’s done. On the contrary, there’s everything to admire. Fearless, curious, endlessly entertaining: would that we were all so stupid and full of ourselves.


2 stars out of 5
Lucy Scholes
26 Apr 2019

"Malcolm’s still one of the smartest critics writing today, but one leaves this book feeling that her best pieces sadly didn’t make the cut."

Malcolm is the undisputed queen of description... Two excellent pieces on Anna Karenina remind us what a deeply intelligent literary critic Malcolm is. In the first, she contests “standard readings of the novel” that “attribute Anna’s descent into madness to the loss of her son and her ostracism by society.” The second, meanwhile, deals with the fraught issue of translating the Russian writer into English... Reading Malcolm on Bate’s book — in which, she writes, “specimens of tastelessness lodged [ . . . ] like the threepenny coins in a Christmas pudding” — in The New York Review of Books when it was published in 2016 made sense. Re-reading the piece here though, it feels flimsy, compared to the heft of The Silent Woman, and Bate — along with some of the other subjects here — unworthy of Malcolm’s attention. In fact, the more I read, the more something felt off. Malcolm herself — her fame and her critical prowess — increasingly became the elephant in the room. Especially since the one recent New Yorker piece I wish had been included was “Six Glimpses of the Past: On Photography and Memory” in which Malcolm takes herself as subject — ingeniously so — for the first time. Malcolm’s still one of the smartest critics writing today, but one leaves this book feeling that her best pieces sadly didn’t make the cut.