“Irene sporadically reviewed novels and poetry, and although she wasn’t professionally affiliated with any particular magazine or publication, her reviews tended to cluster in The Village Voice and The New York Review of Books and The New York Times Book Review, an impressive résumé that might have suggested her opinion was valuable and worth cultivating, an implication belied by her unqualified championing of purple-prosy memoirish semiliterate ‘novels’ by minority, lesbian, or otherwise disadvantaged women, and her ecstatic spasms of devotion for ‘feminist’ poets like my mother, whom she had recently dubbed, without a trace of irony, ‘Walt Whitman with a womb’ in The Voice.
“My mother, to her own discredit, had seen nothing to question in this praise, not a whiff of hyperbole or fatuity. The day it came out, I had been at her apartment, and had cringed through her side of the ensuing telephone conversation with Irene. ‘Such high praise,’ she’d said breathily, ‘coming from such a brilliant critic. I’m actually weeping, Irene!’ Her friendship with Irene itself betrayed this same lack of discrimination, a selective gullibility and glibness I had always found deplorable in her; she was so easily taken in by some things and some people, including herself.”
Kate Christensen, Jeremy Thrane
Terry Teachout on the arts in New York City
An ArtsJournal Blog