The Review of Contemporary Fiction

Misfit: The Strange Life of Frederick Exley by Jonathan Yardley
John O'Brien

Jonathan Yardley. Misfit: The Strange Life of Frederick Exley. Random House, 1997. 255 pp. $25.00.

This book is an embarrassment. Even the author’s photo is awful, though perhaps it reveals something of the problem with the book; in it, Yardley’s expression seems to be saying: “We never sit with our elbows on the table, now do we? No, no, no! This just won’t do. Mother would die if she saw those elbows.” The word for this is . . . proper? unctuous? No. The word is prissy. That’s it. Yardley’s photo speaks of prissiness.
The book has no index, which is a true feat of the imagination for a biography. How does Random House publish a biography that has no index? Are Yardley’s reviews in the Washington Post so important that they let him get away with this laziness? Apparently.
Fine. No index. But then one begins to read the deadly book itself and discovers that there are no footnotes! Just what was Yardley’s method in compiling this “biography”? Well, he seems to have gotten all of his information from several people and then recorded what they had to say with little or no attempt at judging their accuracy. Had he footnoted, it seems as though he may have had to put quotes around everything in the book or have had footnote numbers at the end of every paragraph to indicate which source had filled him in on this particular subject.
And finally. The style of writing is that found in the worst of biographies. Exley is called “Fred” throughout the book, anecdotes are told in winsome, snappy ways, and vast generalities about life and man stick to almost every page. All that is absent is anything remotely resembling a decent biography of Frederick Exley.
I can’t think of anyone more ill-equipped to write this biography than Yardley. But then I have a hard time thinking of anyone more ill-equipped than Yardley to be an in-house reviewer for the Post (just how do they pick these people? are IQ tests ever administered? writing tests? anything?). Why did Yardley even bother? [John O’Brien]


Interview with Founder Board of Directors Funders Submission Guidelines Dalkey Archive Full Catalog Current and Forthcoming Titles Recent Titles Review of Contemporary Fiction Special Library Offer Special Backlist Sale Stores & Wholesalers Academics Libraries Reviewers Context Casebooks Author Interviews Links Dalkey Archive News Events Newsletter

The Review of Contemporary Fiction Misfit: The Strange Life of Frederick Exley by Jonathan Yardley John O'Brien Jonathan Yardley. Misfit: The Strange Life of Frederick Exley. Random House, 1997. 255 pp. $25.00. This book is an embarrassment. Even the author’s photo is awful, though perhaps it reveals something of the problem with the book; in it, Yardley’s expression seems to be saying: “We never sit with our elbows on the table, now do we? No, no, no! This just won’t do. Mother would die if she saw those elbows.” The word for this is . . . proper? unctuous? No. The word is prissy. That’s it. Yardley’s photo speaks of prissiness. The book has no index, which is a true feat of the imagination for a biography. How does Random House publish a biography that has no index? Are Yardley’s reviews in the Washington Post so important that they let him get away with this laziness? Apparently. Fine. No index. But then one begins to read the deadly book itself and discovers that there are no footnotes! Just what was Yardley’s method in compiling this “biography”? Well, he seems to have gotten all of his information from several people and then recorded what they had to say with little or no attempt at judging their accuracy. Had he footnoted, it seems as though he may have had to put quotes around everything in the book or have had footnote numbers at the end of every paragraph to indicate which source had filled him in on this particular subject. And finally. The style of writing is that found in the worst of biographies. Exley is called “Fred” throughout the book, anecdotes are told in winsome, snappy ways, and vast generalities about life and man stick to almost every page. All that is absent is anything remotely resembling a decent biography of Frederick Exley. I can’t think of anyone more ill-equipped to write this biography than Yardley. But then I have a hard time thinking of anyone more ill-equipped than Yardley to be an in-house reviewer for the Post (just how do they pick these people? are IQ tests ever administered? writing tests? anything?). Why did Yardley even bother? [John O’Brien]

Search the full text of our books: