On the back page of yesterday’s New York Times Book Review, Joseph Finder brings a refreshing candor to the dirty little subject of ambition. Serious writers, it seems, aren’t supposed to have any. They labor for art alone; they write “for themselves,” eschewing even the desire for an audience. And if they have any hope of making–err, excuse me for uttering the word, money, well they’ve obviously not attained the necessary purity. Maybe five or ten more years of fasting on contributor’s copies and Ramen noodles will do the trick.
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