From the Oct 5 San Francisco Chronicle, an excerpt from Martin Rubin’s perhaps surprising review of The Journal of Joyce Carol Oates:
“When you think of Joyce Carol Oates, you think of passionate writing, intensity of feeling, lurid situations. The last words you would associate with her would be pallid, lukewarm, watery. Imagine, then, the surprise of turning to “The Journal of Joyce Carol Oates,” this selection of the journals she kept from 1973 to 1982, anticipating all the imaginative engagement generally to be found when she has put pen to paper and ending up in the low-temperature universe of this representation of her quotidian life. And, shockingly, it is the way this life is presented that is so – well, you cannot avoid the word no matter how hard you try – dull.
“For Oates leads a perfectly eventful life, both inwardly and outwardly. These years see her move from Ontario to Princeton, where she becomes part of an interesting, to say the least, group of people, many of whom become her friends. She is happily married to a man who shares her interests. In addition, she gets to know writers such as Philip Roth and Susan Sontag. She attends conferences and gives lectures, talks and classes. She enjoys reading widely among both contemporary literature and the great classics of the past. She is intensely interested in classical music. And, of course, she writes books. All these things she talks about, soberly, intelligently, analytically, honestly. Her handling of everything is in the best of taste, unobjectionable, admirable even.
“Why, then, does it seem so unlike the work of an author of fiction that has always shown such fierce imagination, such fearless reach? How can a writer who has produced such a prodigious body of varied, highly imaginative short stories and novels write such unoriginal, uninspired
thoughts in such a banal way? Why keep a journal – and still more, publish it – when it is so much less compelling than anything else she has written?” …
The full review is here.