It’s great that people are often complicated and unique collections of opinions and ideas, but surely we can all agree that some personal contradictions can be irritating. Take, for example, B.R. Meyers, recently popping up as a subject of controversy again due to his negative review of Denis Johnson’s Tree of Smoke.

Of course, lots of people that like books remember the controversy that emerged from Meyers’ Atlantic Monthly piece (later expanded and published in book form), A Reader’s Manifesto. As a result of that work, many literary-minded people were given a free pass to ignore whatever B.R. Meyers says until the end of time.

Which is kind of a shame — or at least it would be if not for… well, we’ll come to that in a second — because, even if his points aren’t valid, they still wind up being addressed again and again, though not necessarily by Meyers himself. The central point of Meyers’ seems to be that certain writers and certain books are overrated. That this leads to declarations of vast library-wing conspiracies is, of course, the irritating part we mentioned earlier.

Some people argued against Meyers’ complaints of literary pretentiousness by calling him a philistine, an idiot, and so on. Others simply ignored him. And then there was the small contingent who pointed out that accusing the modern literary novel/industrial complex of excessive pretencion is rather like sending back a slice of cake for having flour and sugar in it.

But some novels surely are overrated, or else one must seriously contend that the system always works. Or, you could simply say that different people have different tastes, and that fashion will have its day in spite of that, and then just drop the subject.

The main complaint about B.R. Meyers (aside from his just being wrong in general), is his pugnacious stance. If only, some might say, he could present his ideas more gently. Except that would be impossible. If you’re going to say writers like McCarthy, Auster, or DeLillo are overrated, you might as well go whole hog. It’s rather like an athiest with a column in the church bulletin — “What’s all this nonsense about an invisible man in the sky? Who’s that skinny fellow hanging on that cross there — he looks like a clown!” Broaching these subjects with tact and respect will not lead to discussion, only replies of the condescending, “Maybe the problem is you type.”

That said, the Tree of Smoke review seems quite pointless. And yet, I think it’s the longest review I’ve seen of the book, lately. It’s disappointing: there were some moments in the Readers’ Manifesto book that only reinforced our love of reading, that gave us the wonderful feeling that — maybe — a reader could actually use his or her own judgement when deciding whether or not they liked a book. To then tarnish that freedom by telling readers that they shouldn’t like a book by, you know, reviewing it, is, as we’ve mentioned several times, irritating.

Of course, I realize now that only professional critics should be allowed to tell you whether or not you liked a book, that your own judgement, unless you’ve been accredited, is the last thing you should place your faith in.