In May 2004, three novels into my career, I published my first book review in The Irish Times, a short piece on Khaled Hosseini’s The Kite Runner. The piece was commissioned by the late Caroline Walsh, the much-loved and much-missed former editor of these pages.
This month, as my 28th book, Air, arrives in shops, I publish my 150th book review.
Of those, I’ve never met 97 of the authors, 32 are casual acquaintances, 13 I consider friends, while only eight are people I hope would show up at my funeral (even if they have to fly in from Australia).
For many years, I’ve had a fruitful arrangement with Martin Doyle, the current books editor of The Irish Times. A few months ahead of publication date, I suggest a few books and he tells me which, if any, he would like me to take on. (To the conspiracy theorists out there, not once have I been given even the hint of an instruction on the tone my review should take.) I base my choices on three criteria: either I’ve read the writer’s previous work and enjoyed it, the subject matter appeals to me or I’ve heard good things on the grapevine.
There are reviews I’m proud of.
In 2012, I appraised JK Rowling’s The Casual Vacancy and was probably the only person on the planet not to reference a certain boy wizard. I wrote about Roddy Doyle’s Two Pints in the voices of the characters, and having read Belinda McKeon’s Tender across a single day, wanted everyone to do the same.
I got a good line in about Harper Lee’s Go Set a Watchman in protest at it being published at all. (“This novel is Boo Radley. It was meant to stay inside, locked away, hidden from the world.”) I helped bring Garth Greenwell and Édouard Louis, two of the finest writers at work today, to attention.
When Graham Norton published Holding, I advised people to set aside their scepticism about celebrity-written books, and he’s more than proved me right ever since. Reviewing How to Be Invisible, Kate Bush’s collection of song lyrics, led to a lunch date, and as her All-Time Greatest Fan I still feel thrilled that my assessment led to a real-world friendship.
I stand by my 2023 piece on Joe Gibson’s Seventeen, a powerful nonfiction book about the effect of sexual grooming on a teenage boy, which, somehow, has yet to find its way into paperback, despite universal praise.
There have been negative reviews too, although as everyone in the writing world knows, there are sacred cows that people are afraid to criticise, either because the author holds a powerful position within the industry or because detractors will be accused of envy should they call a spade a spade. It’s why so much mediocre work goes unchallenged and why there are writers who could publish their weekly shopping list and they’d still receive universal hosannas. Kevin Power was spot on when he wrote in a 2021 essay: “Most books are bad. We all know this, but we seldom say it.”
For that reason, I avoid reviewing authors I consider overrated or, frankly, no good. One of my most chilling experiences is of a writer who provided an effusive blurb for a first novel, describing it to me privately as “the worst piece of hackneyed chick-lit I’ve ever read in my life”.
Recoiling from his use of such a pejorative and misogynist term, I asked why he’d praised it if he felt this way. “Because it was obvious it was going to be a hit,” he said with a shrug. “And I wanted to be associated with it.” Personally, I prefer silence to craven opportunism or outright dishonesty.
I remain ashamed, however, of a deeply unkind review I wrote some years ago that ignored the fact that the writer was new to the game. A review should never be about the reviewer but, for reasons rooted in my unhealthy state of mind at the time, I forgot there was a real person on the other side of those 700 words and revelled in my own supposedly clever sentences instead of concentrating on the author’s.
I subsequently apologised on Twitter to the writer in question – publicly, not by private message – who was far more gracious in reply than I might have been had our positions been reversed.
In my day job, of course, I get reviewed too, and my rule is: don’t believe them when they’re good, don’t believe them when they’re bad. I know the value of my own work and could line up all my books on a shelf, the order determined by whether I feel I achieved artistically what I set out to.
The Heart’s Invisible Furies would be in pole position, followed by A Ladder to the Sky, The Elements and All the Broken Places. (I won’t say what would be at the other end!) While I’ve generally done pretty well on the review front, the best I ever got was for The Echo Chamber, an unusual book for me in that it’s a comedy and no one dies at the end.
My methodology for reviewing hasn’t changed much. I make a note of anything that occurs to me as I’m reading, take photos of lines that impress me (or otherwise), then write my first draft as soon as I finish the final page, simply throwing down everything that occurs to me.
I leave it to bake, so to speak, for a week or so, then return to it when the novel has fully settled in my mind. At that point I rewrite, edit, cut and shape it into something that hopefully respects the work, while giving readers an honest assessment of my personal response to it. And remember, that’s all a review is: one person’s reaction to a book. It’s not definitive; it’s just an opinion.
A word to the wise. Here are some phrases that should never be used in a review:
“An instant classic”: there’s no such thing and it’s lazy writing. It takes decades, maybe even a century, for a book to achieve that status.
I genuinely enjoy writing about books and want to use whatever authority I’ve earned over a 33-year career for positive ends
“Whip-smart”: reviewers, please stop referring to young women writers as “whip-smart” as if it’s a shock to discover they might have a brain in their pretty little heads. (The phrase is never used for men, of course.)
“Meets”: as in “American Psycho meets Rachel’s Holiday".
No one is “the voice of a generation” because no generation speaks with one voice. If they do, God help them.
Consulting writer friends for phrases they loathe, I was told that “fiercely intelligent is annoying”, while “a moving exploration of trauma and identity”, and “compelling” were also poorly regarded.
You might ask why I do it. I don’t need the exposure, there’s always the risk of upsetting someone and – no offence, Martin – it doesn’t pay very well.
The answer is, I genuinely enjoy writing about books and want to use whatever authority I’ve earned over a 33-year career for positive ends. Conscious that the publishing world can be difficult at times, reviewers, in my view, should support the endeavour, offering readers reasons to buy books, not to ignore them. Never to lie, but also never to shame, ridicule or humiliate. And if talented newcomers can be given a leg up by those of us with an audience, then all the better.
So I guess I’ll keep reviewing for as long as I’m allowed. While it’s a privilege to have the platform to do so, the best part is occasionally discovering a book so amazing that I want to share it with the world.
John Boyne’s latest novel, Air, is published by Doubleday
