The five stages of owning that massive Philip Roth biography

Earlier this year, Blake Bailey’s long-awaited biography of Philip Roth hit the shelves with an underwhelming clunk, amidst a series of appalling allegations against the biographer. And some of us are still getting over it. And by us, you know exactly who I mean. At a tote bag-straining 880 pages, it was to be our Deathly Hallows. Instead, it was about as toxic a book as J.K. Rowling might release now. Since I became too uncomfortable to read it in our present cultural moment, I've been on quite a journey:

Denial: Blake Bailey did what? The Blake Bailey? The Problematic Man’s Hermione Lee?! Could a man of letters even do such a thing?

Anger: Suddenly I’m feeling too icky to even touch it. It’s staring at me from the shelf. I can’t believe I gave $30 to that human stain. The indignation! First I can’t watch or re-enact Manhattan any more, and now this! Oh, the indignation!

Bargaining: Perhaps it’s not gross if I only read it using my formidable critical eye. After all, who was it that said, Art is not a moral beauty contest? That’s right: Philip Milton Fucking Roth. The Thinking Man's John Updike.

Depression: It’s still staring at me from the shelf. I can’t bring myself to crack it open, but I’d need a forklift to get rid of it. God, I feel like Ross Miller right now, the Poor Man’s Blake Bailey.

Acceptance: I, a male intellectual, have valiantly opted to separate the art from the artist. I shall swap the dust jacket with Amia Srinivasan’s, devour it in La Colombe and then tell my date it was “complex”. Now hang on, Annie Hall is about to start.