When I was 16 or so, I took out a book of criticism by Harold Bloom. He called J.D. Salinger’s writing juvenile (or something along those lines) and said some other things that I perceived as way too harsh. I remember the shock I felt that a writer I loved so much wasn’t universally admired. I remember exactly where on my bedroom floor I was sitting and how I tossed the book aside towards this child-sized white rocking chair with a doll on it. Things felt different from that point on.
— Martha Gellhorn
I often used to confuse Jonathan Franzen, David Foster Wallace, and Jonathan Safran Foer.
Because of the three name thing and the Jonathan thing and the white male genius thing.