Condalmo and The Millions are all up on a Guardian list of the best 25 BritLit books of the last 25 years. In the wake of this list, I'm sure the usual bemoaning of the vacuousness of list culture shall certainly spread like a rash from one lit blog to the next.
Except, the Brits, they know that already. It's worth reading the lengthy intro to the list, in which Robert McCrum admits that, yes, this is a cheeky, Americanesque exercise, but that they were as curious as anyone else as to what the results of the poll would be, so hey, why not? I'm all about the why-nots, myself. Plus it's good we finally get to see the opinions about the state of BritLit of such noted British authors as Rick Moody and Jonathan Safran Foer.
As for the list itself, my man Kazuo Ishiguro takes home three nominations, so you know I know the world hasn't totally lost its mind and that I'll be able to sleep peacefully tonight. (Interesting that The Unconsoled was his top-nominated book. Further evidence of the curiously shifting nature of critical opinion.) You've got a list in which only one of the top ten books was written by a woman, so you know as a culture we're still hopelessly mired in antiquated sexism. You get your JM Coetzee book in the top spot, further evidence that I really should consider reading his stuff sometime. And there's your Harry Potter listed alongside books like A Fine Balance by Rohinton Mistry and The God of Small Things by Arundhati Roy, further evidence that nothing in this world makes sense and that there's no way under the sun I'll be able to sleep peacefully tonight.
What we do not get is the identity of the author who voted for himself. Let the speculations fly.
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