For the past five years, I had avoided the work of Miranda July, including her debut film Me and You and Everyone We Know (2005). July rose to prominence as my interest in quirk in all forms of art both bottomed out and became my oft-cited reason for ignoring that mode of art. To be more specific, I still have yet to see Napoleon Dynamite (2004) and I have largely avoided the work of writer Dave Eggers after A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius (2000) made me want to punch a wall.* I both realize and realized (at the time) that this was not necessarily a just or fair avoidance and not a beneficial trait for a critic to have. Yet, criticism always involves some layer of subjectivity and personal taste (ex. Roger Ebert’s distaste of violence directed at children). After all, that is one reason why we, as readers, are drawn to the work of particular critics. It is counter-productive to try to hide these tastes behind objective statements. But to bring us back to the issue at hand, after reading one too many Chuck Palahniuk novels, I needed a long vacation from excessive eccentricity.
