Gentle readers, I’m afraid another literary crush of mine has come to an ignoble–and rather hideous–end. The object of said crush: author Michael Lewis, whose first book, Liar’s Poker, is one of my favorite non-fiction reads ever. No one writes about money and society better than Lewis. Recently, though, he’s taken to writing about his family–specifically about parenthood–and the result is not pretty. I do not recommend his new memoir, so much so that I am not giving you the title, or linking to it. For the reason why my crush is well and truly dead, here’s a sample: an excerpt in the Guardian subtitled: “the joys of having a vasectomy“.
I will spare you the rest, except to report that my former literary crush Michael Lewis did, in fact, STFU and get the vasectomy. Personally, I hope the urologist went light on the anesthetic.