There's just something about a schlump. Or rather, there must be, otherwise we American male novelists wouldn't keep writing books about them. Let us observe Jonathan Franzen's latest, in which the eco-maniacal egghead, at long last, gets the girl. Or Jonathan Lethem's stoned underachievers, with their mad ideas that turn out to be right. David Foster Wallace gave us protagonists who shunned the physical world in favour of the knottier, more intractable challenges of the mind; George Saunders offers comic heroes who fail excellently. Turn the book over, lift up the flap. We don't look too bad in black and white, do we, our hair artfully mussed, our beards half-grown, our eyeglasses polished. But can't you see the fear in our charmingly narrowed eyes? The fear that you'll realise the truth about us? That we are, deep down, self-disgusted losers? Or maybe we're afraid you won't notice. It doesn't matter how many books we've sold, or whether we've been on Letterman or Oprah. We're nerds. Dorks. Putzes. Schlumps. And we don't want to let you forget it.

LRB 16 December 2010 | PDF Download