In the previous post, I mentioned Being Dead, the National Book Critics Circle Award winner for 2000. I read it, hated it, then began treating reviews with a fair amount of skepticism because book critics clearly have no taste. I wrote my own review, which I add below for your reading pleasure:

I just finished Being Dead by Jim Crace. This book is about, well, being dead. And that's it. The characters aren't particularly interesting. Dialogue is almost nonexistent. There's barely a plot other than a thin story arc describing the events of the deceased's last day through the discovery of their bodies. The murderer disappears as stealthily as he arrives, and I got the impression that no one is intent on looking for him. In addition, the victims are so dull that you don't even feel sorry for them.

The only thing I can say in the book's defense is that it's beautifully written. But does it mean anything? A story isn't a great piece of literature just because an author is adept at composing prose. I'll give you an example of a piece I wrote myself:

I stepped onto the cool tile and was soon comforted by its smooth familiarity. Crossing the room, I paused as my face glided across the mirror. For a moment I contemplated the lines near my eyes which have become ever more pronounced with the passing years. The soft light above spread across the porcelain, hiding its stark whiteness under a warm blanket of ochre. Pools of darkness formed in the folds of my slacks as they slid down my thighs and calves to the floor below. Now seated, I was awash with contentment as the day's detritus flowed from my secret inner folds and splashed into the gaping mouth of the awaiting basin.

In case you missed it, I just took a beautifully written shit. And that's what this book is like. A beautifully written yet unsentimental account of murder, carrion, decay, rot, scavengers, and maggots. In particular, I didn't appreciate the numerous paragraphs discussing the dead man's penis from the moment of death to how the mortician will insert a plastic plug to keep his liquefying innards contained.

Maybe it's just me, but I don't get artsy crap like this. After I'm dead, I'll have eternity to contemplate its condition. In life, I'd much rather be entertained and amused. - May 31, 2001

Anyone else read it and think I'm dead wrong?