Reading Pineapple Street felt like ordering a supposedly exquisite eclair and receiving a brightly decorated doughnut instead. Initially, the vibrant exterior of the book, much like that dazzling coating, might catch your eye, promising a treat. You might think, “Okay, it’s not an eclair, but perhaps this will be a surprisingly good doughnut.” Taking a bite, however, reveals a dry, unremarkable interior. The experience is inoffensive, edible perhaps, but ultimately uninteresting – a two-star dish at best. The real disappointment, however, comes the morning after, when the sheer insipidness of the meal leaves a lingering sense of emptiness. It’s an experience that’s worse in retrospect than in the moment, especially when there’s so little of substance to actually remember. One star.
This experience serves as a potent reminder to question book recommendations, particularly those from sources like the New York Times. It’s a publication whose literary endorsements often seem tailored to a specific demographic: affluent, self-satisfied liberals. This group appears to favor narratives that mirror their own worldview, prioritizing moralistic tales devoid of genuine artistry or innovative technique. These books, much like sacks, are merely vessels for the most fashionable progressive ideologies, strenuously signaling their bog-standard virtues. Pineapple Street sadly fits this mold, its eye-catching title masking a hollow core. It’s a novel that comes across as self-impressed, scolding, and tiresomely trendy in its politics. Lacking in genuine style, burdened by shallow themes, and unfolding with a predictable plot populated by dull characters, it amounts to a literary nullity. Unsurprisingly, the inspiration for this novel reportedly sprang from a fluffy NYT profile of young members of the one percent engaging in wealth redistribution. That it was allegedly written in a mere four months also comes as no shock.
While holding class-conscious progressive values myself, these convictions did little to make Pineapple Street any more palatable. The novel attempts to depict class tensions, but does so in the most flavorless and uninspired manner imaginable – utterly blah. Imagine a dish composed solely of mayonnaise, syrup, and vanilla; individually, these elements might be acceptable, even enjoyable. However, combined, they create a concoction that is simply unpleasant, no matter how much bright food coloring is added in an attempt to make it more appealing.
Perhaps the most disheartening aspect of this literary misadventure is discovering the author’s esteemed position: an executive editor and vice president at Knopf. The realization that such influential figures might champion and encourage the creation of similarly flavorless literary dishes is genuinely concerning.
