I don’t know what I was expecting, but when publishers start throwing around Hillary Clinton money for a book proposal by a “rare literary talent,” I certainly expect more than this.
It’s not funny. It’s not insightful. It’s not the least bit entertaining. It’s just a tepid exercise in neurotic navel gazing by a privileged white girl from New York who just happens to have her own show on HBO.
That’s fine, I suppose. The folks at Random House can squander their millions however they see fit, and kudos to Lena for cashing in on her Woody Allen meets Candace Bushnell schtick.
Still, in a book that purports to be about advice, you’d think the voice of a generation might have something to say about the world that exists beyond the end of her nose.
Then again, maybe not, and maybe that’s the larger point about a generation.