They've weighed in on the Whiter Book Reviews post with an exceedingly interesting question of their own:

Recent high-profile (if far more 'literary' (at least so the popular opinion)) titles like the new books by Coetzee and Rushdie seem to us to be a more interesting approach to the question: both have been widely reviewed, and it's here one might wonder whether or not review-space might not be put to better use.

And you know what? He's right. I'm not saying I have an answer (Hah! I leave the heavy lifting to others) but the question is a fine one. Who, after all, needs a twelfth and thirteenth review of either of these titles? (See the LA Times' late-to-the-game review of the new Berendt as a case in point.) I imagine that most papers feel they need to cover such titles to maintain their Seriousness Quotient but with space at such a premium, wouldn't it be the brave reviewer indeed who bypassed both in favor of something like The Pagoda in the Garden or Cold Skin?

What do you guys think? Unless you've got the limitless online storage space to keep a vast archive, why not consider a radical take on refashioning book reviews?

That said, working with Maud and Mark on this issue has actually made us reconsider our format a bit. For a while now, we've been thinking about including a section on recent books in each issue, with both positive and negative coverage. We may test it out in November, but we won't give up the shortlist style. The greatest advantage of doing only recommendations is that it allows us to review older titles as well. It would make little sense to bash a book from thirty years ago (why bother?), but it's saying something new to tip your readers off to a little-known good read, regardless of whether it came out in the '80s or the 1800s. Books deserve a shelf life longer than their slot in the publishing industry's seasons, especially given the pricey hardcover market.

Above and beyond Boldtype's editorial policies, though, I personally have absolutely no problem with negative reviews. That's part of the game, and in many ways it's more helpful to read a takedown of a celebrated book than it is to skim yet another round of lukewarm praise. The reviewing pool is too shallow anyway — we need some snarks to keep it healthy.

As for Don Quixote, I confess actually feeling mild relief at not having taken it on - it's so thoroughly examined that it's hard to imagine what the mere 300 words we'd been allotted would really achieve. After all, my beloved James Wood took considerably longer than that when he looked at the book for the New Yorker and - despite his brilliance - I think even he was hard-pressed to say something new. (I think perhaps Nabokov was the last person to add something to the debate when he spoke of the book's remarkably cruel humor.)

So I'm actually comfortable having bypassed our personal favorites like the Baldwin and the Cervantes - after all, these books are not exactly wanting for an audience. I felt a bit differently about the Banville (personal bias notwithstanding) as he's an author who continues to struggle to find the audience he deserves.

Which brings me to the bigger point that I've been thinking about, that I think we've all wrestled with. What, exactly, ought a book review do? Is it merely a consumer guide to lead buyers through the jungle of titles? Or is it meant to shine a light on the less traveled byways, to make readers aware of things they might have missed. (The idealist will surely reply "Why not both?" but as noted above, time and space will also intervene, and decisions must be made.)

Do we remotely need yet another review of anything by Stephen King, John Grisham or any other more or less review-proof authors? Should book reviews reflect the purchasing choices of their readers (reviewing pop culture, self-help, celebrity memoirs) or should they be more lamp than mirror? And if they are lamps, whose lamps, exactly? Subjectivity is ever the sticky wicket, and although it's more or less implied that in reading a review you're accepting one person's take, that subjectivity takes on a different shade when it's applied to, for example, an editor's vision for what a book review should be.

For my own taste, there's nothing more boring than reading a book review full of titles I already know about. But I do sometimes forget that as a book blogger I'm a bit more plugged in to what's coming. What about you, Maud - and Toby, and anyone reading this? What should a book review do for you?

Our classics titles took a stronger hit than the rest, mostly out of deference to Boldtype's preference for balancing older and more recent works. I remember calling you up, excited that you'd proposed Don Quixote. Not only does the book celebrate its 400th anniversary this year, but it's considered by many writers to be the greatest novel ever written. It's a pity we couldn't fit it in.

Someone else submitted a list including Frederick Douglass' Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass and Horatio Alger's Ragged Dick. I had a hard time letting these suggestions go. It would've been fascinating to discuss the two disparate books -- one the story of an African American man who escaped slavery and devoted his life to the abolitionist cause, and the other a facile prescription for boys in the late Nineteenth Century to achieve the American Dream -- in tandem.

My own great sadness was the omission of Giovanni's Room, by James Baldwin, from my list. Baldwin's work has captivated me for years -- if there's a more complex portrait of Pentecostalism than Go Tell It On the Mountain or that story about the kids on the church boat ride, I haven't read it -- but I only recently got around to this book, and it's nearly eclipsed the others. Talk about self-made misery (spoiler alert): the closeted narrator doesn't break things off with his long-term girlfriend, but moves in with a gorgeous Italian country boy, Giovanni, while she's away, and then deserts Giovanni and breaks his heart, precipitating tragedy for everyone. And the story resounds far beyond the personal tragedies depicted. Giovanni's remarks about American self-centeredness and blithe disregard for other peoples and cultures are as apt today as they were when the book appeared -- nearly fifty years ago, now.

In lieu of the Baldwin, I would've liked to include Margaret Drabble's The Millstone or James Hynes' Publish or Perish. But we did, as you say, get The Sea, The Sea on there. So I'm not complaining.

But I'd like to invite other people to complain. If anybody's reading, what books do you think Mark and I should've included?

I suspect that - at least partly because of my screenwriting background, where one is perpetually subjected to the demands of "groupthink" in one form or another - I might be a bit more desensitized to the vagaries of group decision making. And I do enjoy collaboration — I can be a bit tunnel-visioned sometimes, so I welcome other perspectives. As it turns out, if anything, we were probably a bit too deferential to each other during this process, don't you think? We each stepped aside from books we suggested to allow room for books suggested by the other. (I'd originally hoped to see John Banville's The Untouchable get a self-made nod, for example, but stepped back to give room to The Sea, The Sea.) Of course, maybe that's the best possible definition of collaboration ...

I can certainly plead to having been a bit slow on the uptake with respect to Boldtype's choice to run only positive reviews. And, like you, that gave me some pause. But I think it's a trickier thing than it appears on the surface. We're both definitely believers in the importance of negative reviews for a variety of reasons - for me, I want them if only to provide for some calibration of my own taste against a reviewer's. The bigger question, here, of course, is of institutional credibility: A reader might fairly ask, "Well, how can I trust Boldtype if they like everything?"

It puts me in mind of an exchange I had with Alan Cheuse, way before I started The Elegant Variation. I'd left a comment posting at The Antic Muse on the whole Julavits/Snark debate, and I'd opined something (snarky) to the effect that if one only ran positive reviews, they risked becoming Oprah or Alan Cheuse. Imagine my surprise when about a week or two later, I received an email from him, asking me to explain what I meant. After I got over the shock of hearing from him, I explained that I simply felt that with every review I hear on NPR being positive, it cast doubt for me on his critical credibility. He told me that although he has written negative reviews — he sent me a copy of a review of Cosmopolis he'd written (for Bookforum, I think) — he felt that radio time for books was so valuable he didn't want to waste it on a negative review.

Well, I kind of understand that. Although I think Boldtype should, perhaps, be encouraged to call themselves something other than a book review. Toby used the term "shortlist of recommendations" in our discussions, which feels a bit more appropriate - I'm more comfortable if one discloses up front that, "Look, this is a list of recommendations, of things we like, not a formal review." I don't think there's any foul at all in choosing to promote work one is enthusiastic about - I do it on my "recommended" sidebar but I don't have (or feel the need for) an "Avoid At All Costs" sidebar (though that might be fun). The trouble starts when one solicits positive reviews, and I have no evidence of Boldtype doing anything like that. In fact, reviewers have the chance to simply opt out and not review a title they're not enthusiastic about. (Now, to be completely fair, I've just gone back on noticed that on Boldtype's home page it pretty clearly says: "Boldtype is an email-based book review that offers a monthly shortlist of worthwhile reads." I've never noticed that before, but I assume it's always been there. Toby?)

As for Laila, well, you and I both knew that this would probably raise a few eyebrows but I suspect it will be a tempest in a teapot - nobody barked when Christopher Hitchens reviewed Salman Rushdie for the Atlanic (except, amusingly, Laila and me), where the stakes and readership are a good deal higher. But personally, I'm fine with the eyebrows — I liked the book as much as you did. I read it cover to cover flying from L.A. to N.Y. for BEA - and completely missed the meal service because of it! So I have a clean conscience recommending it, as I imagine Hitch felt he had with Rushdie. (And it's worth reiterating that all we did was assign it for review — we have no control over whether the reviewer ultimately likes it.)

But this seems as good a place as any for me to attack head on an argument that drives me nuts — that bloggers are a clique. Can we be a bit too self-referential for our own good? Undoubtedly. But — for me at least — I always say that blogs are essentially a record of their hosts' enthusiasms. And it seems foolish to me to pretend that I'm not a fan of Laila's site (or yours) simply because I've come to know you or because we all cover books together or because my doing so will irritate someone. There are plenty of book blogs I don't mention at all because they don't register the same way. And in the case if Laila's book, frankly, wouldn't it be equally clique-y not to recommend it to protect her from the possibility of any bad notices?

The main thing is that I have faith in my readers. They know what I like, they seem to trust my taste. I hope they believe that I wouldn't jeopardize that relationship recommending something I didn't really believe in. I've gotten galleys of many books from people I know that I've never mentioned for just that reason. (Besides, even in the best case not everyone agrees — I recently heard from a reader who found Home Land disappointing despite my rave.)

Additionally, I think one of the reasons Boldtype wanted us was to cast a wider net in terms of titles to consider. To pick up books not necessarily on the radar of big reviewers. And what fits that mandate better than a small, literary collection of short stories from a small but respected independent press?

Finally, is there a book on this list that better fits our "self-made" criteria (on every level - from theme of the book to the author's personal story)? I don't see it. (Although I must confess, I'm quite pleased to see the Iris Murdoch on our final list.)

But maybe I'm just seeing what I want to see — and Lord knows, no blogger has ever done that before.

In the planning, we discussed using this space to talk about both the books under review - especially Laila Lalami's debut short-story collection - and the experience of putting together and editing a collection of book reviews under someone else's rules. I'll just say upfront that it's been an occasionally unsettling experience for me.

I'm normally as likely to sign on to collaborative projects as I would be to hold a hornets' nest in my bare hands. I've learned from experience that, when institutional rules intervene and group decisions have to be made, I tend to end up wondering why I decided to venture off my own square of Internet real estate. (Mark, remember that "a dictatorship, not a democracy" thing I once posted in a fit of pique?) Sometimes I think the subtitle of my blog should be a disclaimer: "does not play well with others."

But I respect Mark's taste, and his judgment, and he and I have turned to each other for support so often on our own writing projects that I was excited when you asked if we'd co-edit this issue.

And I appreciate your patience throughout this process.
 

Okay, Mark, time for some navel-gazing.

It's been good to work with you — not least because we had an official reason to do what we always do anyway: recommend books to each other.

But the experience hasn't been without its surprises. First off, who knew the reviews we ran had to be positive? (Cue the well-trodden snark debate. I think you know where I stand on that.) Good thing most of the reviewers enjoyed their assigned titles.

I liked the book I was slated to review well enough to recommend it, with significant qualifications, to friends. But if I wouldn't foist a book on people I know without caveats, I certainly wouldn't give a blanket recommendation to strangers. When I took a stab at a draft of the review, my reservations were more prominent than my praise. I thought about it and realized I couldn't approach the book any other way. So I decided not to review it. For me, nuance in criticism is everything -- except in the case of the (rare) perfect book or the (unfortunately not at all rare) abominable one.

Also, I confess: I was too nervous to ask writers and critics I know if they'd be willing to guest-review for us. I felt as though I'd have to say, "Would you like to review 'The Secret Life of the Lonely Doll'? Hey, great -- uh, just make sure you love it or we can't run your piece."

So I'm glad Boldtype, in anticipation of somebody disliking the book she's assigned, has adopted a policy of assigning too many titles for each issue.
 

Maybe we'll talk more about the reviews later, but for now I think we should talk about "Hope and Other Dangerous Pursuits," fellow book blogger Laila Lalami's short story collection.

She gave me a copy last spring. At first I hesitated to pick it up. You know how it is: even if you like someone's expository writing, you can't predict how you'll respond to her fiction. But when I started reading, I was so engrossed in the stories of Moroccan immigrants crossing the Straits of Gibraltar on an inflatable raft that I missed my stop on the train. The next night I stayed up until 2 a.m. to find out what happens. I still think about some of the characters, especially Noura, who shocks her parents by losing interest in studying at an American university when she befriends a devoutly religious girl and dons the hijab.

If asked for a nuanced critique, I could quibble with the occasional didactic moment, but it's a fine, insightful book. Junot Diaz, one of my favorite contemporary short story writers, called it: "A dream of a debut, by turns troubling and glorious, angry and wise. With her spare elegant prose Lalami has constructed a world remarkable for its resilience, its vibrancy, its motion, and yes, its hope."
 

That said, I didn't expect it to be in the running for this issue. You'll probably remember that when we were first throwing ideas around with Boldtype, I said, "Another book that could fit this theme is Laila Lalami's debut short story collection, 'Hope and Other Dangerous Pursuits.' I don't think we should include it because Lalami is a book blogger, and we wouldn't want to be accused of nepotism. But it's a solid debut collection, and I hope you'll keep it in mind in the future."

Then the longlist of recommendations from came in, and one of Boldtype's usual nominating crew -- someone who's not a book blogger -- had suggested "Hope and Other Dangerous Pursuits" for inclusion. So I thought, well, if somebody else thinks it should be in there, and I think it's a good book and one that fits the theme, why not include it?

I've had second and third and seventieth thoughts since then.

I know we didn't have control over the reviewer's reaction. If she hadn't liked it, we would have run a review of a different book. But the fact remains: we're book bloggers, and we compiled a shortlist that includes another book blogger's debut effort. What would Jennifer Howard say? And would she be right?
 

I know you have a different perspective from mine, though, Mark. Your turn now: what's it been like for you?

Since this is Boldtype's first blog, let's start it off with some navel-gazing. What was it like to guest edit the Self-Made issue? Were there any surprises?

Also, I'm sure some keyboards are already atwitter because we included the debut collection of stories by Laila Lalami, who is a lit-blogger and a friend of yours. So why don't use the first round of this discussion to head off any sceptics and just explain why we included Laila's book?

Thanks to both of you for the extra contribution,

Toby