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toniclark's review against another edition
3.0
Too much, too much! Too much of everything in this book. After hearing it praised on a recent podcast, I was so eager to read it that I decided to buy it instead of waiting for a library copy. Here is Gottlieb’s life related mainly through the jobs he’s held and the seemingly interminable litany of all the famous people he’s known — about 90% of whom, or so it seems, have become close personal friends, part of the family. They eat together, shop together, share holidays and family events. How can one person have so many super-close friends? The book has some interesting snippets, but in the main, it just gets quickly boring.
jdintr's review against another edition
4.0
I teach a high school class of creative writing, and for the past few years I have included Gottlieb's interview with the Paris Review as part of the curriculum.
It is important for writers--especially young writers--to understand what an editor does. In this same vein, it is important for avid readers--the title of Gottlieb's book could just as easily identify his target audience as describe himself.
Gottlieb's account reads as a Who's Who of the past sixty years of American publishing. He includes tasty nuggets about writers like Toni Morrison, John Le Carre, Joseph Heller, Kathryn Hepburn, and a host of others, but Gottlieb also introduces behind-the-scenes players from his career in the industry, first at Simon & Schuster, then at Knopf, and including an interim, 5-year stint at The New Yorker (the later of which is the only area where some scores are settled in a tome that is overwhelmingly positive and self-deprecating).
One challenge for this Gen-X reader (who is the same age as Gottlieb's daughter) was keeping track of the names. Gottlieb usually uses first names or nicknames in profiles--the index is nine pages, which means there are more than one of many common names like Bob's own--and I found myself needing to read back from time to time to figure out which "Bob," "Kate," or "Peter" he was referring to.
This book gets four stars because that's the rating that I give to books that I can't help but pass along to students or friends.
It is important for writers--especially young writers--to understand what an editor does. In this same vein, it is important for avid readers--the title of Gottlieb's book could just as easily identify his target audience as describe himself.
Gottlieb's account reads as a Who's Who of the past sixty years of American publishing. He includes tasty nuggets about writers like Toni Morrison, John Le Carre, Joseph Heller, Kathryn Hepburn, and a host of others, but Gottlieb also introduces behind-the-scenes players from his career in the industry, first at Simon & Schuster, then at Knopf, and including an interim, 5-year stint at The New Yorker (the later of which is the only area where some scores are settled in a tome that is overwhelmingly positive and self-deprecating).
One challenge for this Gen-X reader (who is the same age as Gottlieb's daughter) was keeping track of the names. Gottlieb usually uses first names or nicknames in profiles--the index is nine pages, which means there are more than one of many common names like Bob's own--and I found myself needing to read back from time to time to figure out which "Bob," "Kate," or "Peter" he was referring to.
This book gets four stars because that's the rating that I give to books that I can't help but pass along to students or friends.
toddlleopold's review against another edition
2.0
I wish I could be more enthusiastic about “Avid Reader.”
You’d think Robert Gottlieb would have a rich life to draw from in his memoir: a Manhattan childhood; an early, perfect job as an editor at Simon & Schuster; an even more perfect job as the editor-in-chief at Knopf; editor of the New Yorker; and relationships with dozens of the century’s most famous writers, including Toni Morrison, V.S. Naipaul, Robert Caro, Joseph Heller and John le Carre.
But, to steal a line from another review on Goodreads, Gottlieb could have used a good editor.
“Avid Reader” starts out reasonably, with Gottlieb’s descriptions of his distant parents and his experiences at Columbia and Cambridge. There are hints of joy, stray bits of sadness (a rushed first marriage in particular) and the confidence of a man who, once he finds his course, follows it with energy and devotion.
Which, frankly, he does. But he leaves the rest of us behind.
The problem, to me, is in Gottlieb’s bloodless style. “Avid Reader” reads like one of those Bob Colacello Vanity Fair articles about wealthy WASPs or European nobility, with the tone of an overly pleased man who wishes to convey how wonderful life is for his elite friends while avoiding making any waves so he can get invited to the next party or return unscathed to his comfortable life.
So everybody is dear and talented and handsome and admirable and interesting and charming, and his family and their families spend vacations together, and he’s been friends with them for 20 years, or 30 years, or 40 years, or until they die, at which point he gives a pleasant eulogy.
Even his critiques come off as quibbles: Michael Crichton “wasn’t a very good writer,” more interested in machines than people; Katharine Hepburn was needy; William Shawn was sad. (He does get in a sharp poke at Shawn’s mistress, Lillian Ross, whose book “Here but not Here” “embarrassed everybody but herself.”) This is generous of Gottlieb – and Lord knows I’d rather have a kind-hearted observer like him than an axe-grinder like Michael Wolff – but the overall effect is breezy and shallow, with no details on how he figured out advances and print runs, shaved words from “Something Happened,” or dealt with most of the New Yorker writers.
He does offer useful glimpses of many people, but they’re just that: glimpses, like brief scenes caught from a fast-moving train.
It's not like Gottlieb doesn't have material to work with. At one point he underwent classical Freudian analysis, visiting an analyst four times a week. But he reveals little and when his therapy is done, so is he with the subject.
Or his occasional trips with pretty assistants. These are all platonic, he says, and I have no reason to doubt him; his wife, he mentions at one point, doesn't like to travel. (And they've been married for more than 40 years.) But his almost too casual in the way he brings it all up. And as for his long marriage, about the only rough times we're exposed to have to do with his son, who's on the spectrum. But even that works out after a few pages. No guidance, few musings, little pain.
No soul-baring, in other words, for better or for worse.
I wish *I* could be more generous about “Avid Reader.” I still admire Gottlieb’s work – the list of the books he edited would make an excellent course on 20th-century literature. And the book is certainly well written. But it may have been better served as a magazine article (ironically, it was condensed to one in Vanity Fair) or an appearance on a talk show.
Even there, Gottlieb would probably fall far short of one of his mentions, the raconteur Alexander King – though, given the usual seven minutes and three anecdotes, few would notice. The short form may have been the best form for "Avid Reader."
Sorry, Mr. Gottlieb. May I suggest you talk to Terry McDonell?
You’d think Robert Gottlieb would have a rich life to draw from in his memoir: a Manhattan childhood; an early, perfect job as an editor at Simon & Schuster; an even more perfect job as the editor-in-chief at Knopf; editor of the New Yorker; and relationships with dozens of the century’s most famous writers, including Toni Morrison, V.S. Naipaul, Robert Caro, Joseph Heller and John le Carre.
But, to steal a line from another review on Goodreads, Gottlieb could have used a good editor.
“Avid Reader” starts out reasonably, with Gottlieb’s descriptions of his distant parents and his experiences at Columbia and Cambridge. There are hints of joy, stray bits of sadness (a rushed first marriage in particular) and the confidence of a man who, once he finds his course, follows it with energy and devotion.
Which, frankly, he does. But he leaves the rest of us behind.
The problem, to me, is in Gottlieb’s bloodless style. “Avid Reader” reads like one of those Bob Colacello Vanity Fair articles about wealthy WASPs or European nobility, with the tone of an overly pleased man who wishes to convey how wonderful life is for his elite friends while avoiding making any waves so he can get invited to the next party or return unscathed to his comfortable life.
So everybody is dear and talented and handsome and admirable and interesting and charming, and his family and their families spend vacations together, and he’s been friends with them for 20 years, or 30 years, or 40 years, or until they die, at which point he gives a pleasant eulogy.
Even his critiques come off as quibbles: Michael Crichton “wasn’t a very good writer,” more interested in machines than people; Katharine Hepburn was needy; William Shawn was sad. (He does get in a sharp poke at Shawn’s mistress, Lillian Ross, whose book “Here but not Here” “embarrassed everybody but herself.”) This is generous of Gottlieb – and Lord knows I’d rather have a kind-hearted observer like him than an axe-grinder like Michael Wolff – but the overall effect is breezy and shallow, with no details on how he figured out advances and print runs, shaved words from “Something Happened,” or dealt with most of the New Yorker writers.
He does offer useful glimpses of many people, but they’re just that: glimpses, like brief scenes caught from a fast-moving train.
It's not like Gottlieb doesn't have material to work with. At one point he underwent classical Freudian analysis, visiting an analyst four times a week. But he reveals little and when his therapy is done, so is he with the subject.
Or his occasional trips with pretty assistants. These are all platonic, he says, and I have no reason to doubt him; his wife, he mentions at one point, doesn't like to travel. (And they've been married for more than 40 years.) But his almost too casual in the way he brings it all up. And as for his long marriage, about the only rough times we're exposed to have to do with his son, who's on the spectrum. But even that works out after a few pages. No guidance, few musings, little pain.
No soul-baring, in other words, for better or for worse.
I wish *I* could be more generous about “Avid Reader.” I still admire Gottlieb’s work – the list of the books he edited would make an excellent course on 20th-century literature. And the book is certainly well written. But it may have been better served as a magazine article (ironically, it was condensed to one in Vanity Fair) or an appearance on a talk show.
Even there, Gottlieb would probably fall far short of one of his mentions, the raconteur Alexander King – though, given the usual seven minutes and three anecdotes, few would notice. The short form may have been the best form for "Avid Reader."
Sorry, Mr. Gottlieb. May I suggest you talk to Terry McDonell?
mattbailey's review against another edition
3.0
Enjoyably gossipy if you’re interested in the publishing, magazine, or dance worlds of the late 20th century. Perfect to listen to in short bursts just before bedtime. I have great respect for Mr. Gottlieb’s editorial work and writing, but I can’t imagine anyone who’s not mentioned in the book finding this truly gripping or compelling reading.
alexkerner's review against another edition
4.0
Gottlieb spilt some serious tea here. Great biography for those into the publishing scene.
slugabed's review against another edition
informative
inspiring
reflective
relaxing
medium-paced
4.0