I happened to be looking at Slate (I know, I know, but I’d already browsed Gawker and I was desperately avoiding doing real work) and came across this article by Alice Gregory entitled, “I Read Everything Janet Malcolm Ever Published. I’m in awe of her.”

I too think Malcolm is an excellent writer, but (a) I’m not happy that she gets off the hook for faking quotes, and (b) I’m really really not happy with her apparent attempt to try to force a mistrial for a convicted killer.

I just can’t get over that, for some reason. I can appreciate Picasso’s genius even though he beat his wives or whatever it was he did, I can enjoy the music of Jackson Browne, etc. But for some reason this Malcolm stuff sticks in my craw. There’s no deep meaning to this—I recognize it is a somewhat irrational attitude on my part, I just wanted to share it with you.

P.S. I looked up Jackson Browne on the internet, and it seems the claims against him are disputed. So forget that bit. The Picasso comparison still works.