![]() It’s not that “George Eliot and Me” is a terrible piece or anything–Mead is no Brenda Maddox (though she reports attending a talk by Maddox at which–surprise!–Maddox recounts the Curious Incident of the Honeymoon Defenestration). When, after reading it through three times, I still couldn’t find the payoff–well, that does seem to call for some discussion. It seems a fair assumption that Mead’s essay should be significant in some way–that it should represent outstanding work of its kind. But the New Yorker is prime literary real estate, and eight pages is a lot. ![]() ![]() If Rebecca Mead’s “ George Eliot and Me” * didn’t take up eight pages ( eight pages!) in the New Yorker‘s anniversary issue, I would just let it go by without comment. ![]()
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