To the Editor:

Daniel Mendelsohns July 12 review of David Mitchells Utopia Avenue, which turns into a consideration of all of Mitchells work (eight monumental books condensed into a few pages), sounds like a bunch of sour grapes to me. I often wonder about the arrogance it must take to pass off ones own opinion and taste as some ultimate cultural guideline.

Case in point: Mendelsohn writes about my favorite book, The Bone Clocks, that the structural intricacies here are exhausting rather than involving, and the flirtations with the fantastical come off as silly rather than provocative. Really? Does my deep engagement with the novels central character, Holly Sykes, make me a dunce or just gullible? Maybe Mitchells creation of Richard Cheeseman, the books smug literary critic, hit too close to home?

On the Book Review podcast, Mendelsohn said that when writers have reached the end of their originality, they can sort of flail, and try to do more extravagant gestures in order to feel that youre still being creative. But Mitchells not flailing; hes still expanding.

Helia Rethmann Nashville

To the Editor:

What a pleasant surprise it was to see in Daniel Mendelsohns review of Utopia Avenue the courage to provide criticism of the old-fashioned sort: an intelligent and incisive breakdown of Mitchells work that pulled no punches. Although my own views on Mitchells recent efforts differ somewhat from Mendelsohns, I was nevertheless delighted to find that there remain some critics who appear to be as tired as I am of the endless parade of puff pieces that plague our esteemed literary reviews. I hope that others (both writers and readers) surprised by the sight of a less than hagiographic piece in 2020 might recall the wisdom of H. L. Mencken who reminded us that all of the benefits he ever got from the critics of his work came from the destructive variety.

Hamish R. McCormack Brooklyn

To the Editor:

Although Daniel Mendelsohns review of David Mitchells latest novel, Utopia Avenue, featured a thoughtful analysis of the Mitchellverse, I was disappointed that you chose to reveal his latest books finale and detail its climax.

Reviewers generally know better than to spoil the ending of an eagerly anticipated work and rightfully tend to skimp on details when describing major plot points. A review of The Empire Strikes Back, for instance, should only hint at an important secret about Lukes parentage, rather than spoiling the big reveal.

I have not read the book yet, so I must reserve judgment as to the quality of Mitchells latest work. I can, however, state that the conclusion of Mendelsohns review missed the mark. If you believe a book does not merit reading, by all means, say so, but please do not ruin it for the rest of us.

Geoffrey L. Wertime New York

To the Editor:

In his review of David Mitchells Utopia Avenue, Daniel Mendelsohn finds it implausible that a factory worker would ever say the words Call me. Or repent at your leisure. I have two responses to this: First of all, repent at your leisure is not exactly Nabokov or Joyce in complexity. Second of all, lets please not assume that factory workers are incapable of reading, or of language acquisition.

The following is a list of jobs held by famous authors before they attained published glory: Margaret Atwood was a coffee shop counter worker; Raymond Carver worked as a janitor and a deliveryman; Herman Melville was a cabin boy; John Steinbeck worked at a warehouse; Richard Wright was a postal clerk; Harper Lee was an Eastern Airlines reservations clerk; and Jack Kerouac was, at various times, a gas station attendant and a construction worker.

They all probably found these jobs grueling, yet useful to an aspiring writer.

David EnglishActon, Mass.

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On the Mitchellverse and Other Letters to the Editor - The New York Times