A quick glance at the sidebar (all the stuff that runs down the right-hand side of the column) will show you a bunch of books with five-star reviews. Partly, this stems from the fact that I don’t review books I disklike because I don’t have to. In addition, I have a very good network, and most of what gets recommended to me is extraordinary and therefor deserves a five-star review.
Those of you who know me, going as far back as college, have been known to say, “Did you ever see a movie or read a book you didn’t like?” Well, yes, now and then. And I do appreciate the fun of a negative review; they are more fun than positive reviews. But mostly I only talk/write about the ones I like—and, yes, I know some of you think my standards are set a tad too low.
For years, I carried the best-ever negative review in my pocket; now I just keep it on the Internet where I can easily get at it:
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“New York Times, Oct. 19, 1971
A review by Clive Barnes
Drat!
Toby "Fred" Bluth, director
What I disliked most about the show—apart from its book, lyrics, music, scenery, costumes, lighting, staging and acting—was its extraordinarily fetid air of innuendo.
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I can honestly say I have never disliked anything that much, but that I almost wish I had.
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