In George Orwell’s essay “Confessions of a Book Reviewer,” he makes the point that one of the rather unfortunate conditions necessary for writing reviews is having to force a spontaneous feeling about a work where one doesn’t exist. The amount of books that you find either truly great or truly awful bears a similar ratio to the number of people in your life who you very strongly love or hate. The overwhelming majority only seem deserving of a shrug and an “all right then.”
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