I’ll confess my heart sank slightly at the prospect of reading David Sedaris’s new volume of essays, some of them previously published in the New Yorker, and which, relative to his earlier output, strike me as increasingly shticky and reliant on anecdotes too thin for their weight. (From the essay Little America: “Few things drive me crazier than people who put their feet up on the furniture.”) After nine previous volumes, Sedaris would seem to be suffering from a problem that comes to all writers in the end, and memoir writers in particular, which is a dearth of useable material. What can there possibly be left in the Sedaris backstory that the writer hasn’t already mined?
Well, as it turns out, there is still lots of useable stuff, as well as some an editor could have put a red line through, although Sedaris, who has sold more than 16m books, may well consider himself part of the post-editing elite. (I was reminded while reading of a line from a profile of JK Rowling several years ago in which, referring to The Casual Vacancy, Ian Parker wrote: “Some sentences cause you to picture a Little, Brown editor starting to dial Rowling’s number, then slowly putting down the handset.”) And perhaps it doesn’t matter; as long as Sedaris’s superfans keep coming, both for the books and events, why mess with the formula? For less committed followers, however, reading Sedaris is a glitchier experience than it was.
