Dear Mr. Patterson,

You spoiled my Sunday. (To be more precise, my "so-called friend" Dave Fresh spoiled it when he knocked on my door this morning with the Sunday Book Review in hand -- for some time now I've been encouraging him to read Harry, and there he was, triumphant, having, in his words, uncovered "evidence" not to spend time with the book.)

Wherefore the axe to grind, sir? I can't help but suspect jealousy -- perhaps you are a closet novelist, or a failed blogger?

You compare the novel to the movies "Airplane" and "About Schmidt" (fine films, I'll give you that), but what, sir, are you doing in the NYTBR talking about movies? This is a book Mr. Sarvas has written. Treat it as such.

For example, you might have compared the scene in which Harry falls of the bicycle to another classic humiliation scene in the literary canon, Jake Barnes struggling with Lady Brett in their taxi. Impotence, sir, is a powerful theme. (Harry is not impotent, but do you get my drift?)

But Mr. Patterson, sir, why stoop to your level? Why allow you to infiltrate my brain, and start me questioning "why do I love this book so?"

What I would like to say is this: I feel sorry for you, that your cleverness got in the way of your ability to be moved. Criticism has veiled your heart. Cast it off! Take away that magnifying glass and enjoy the art for what it is: ENTERTAINMENT. (I know that's not you at the top of this letter, but it's how I imagine you.)

Daniel Day-Lewis, in his Oscar-winning turn as Daniel Plainview, said, "I have a competition in me. I want no one else to succeed." Mr. Patterson, we all have competitions in us, but the thing that distinguishes a small man from a great man is that a great man looks PAST his own small dreams and is able to recognize somebody else's achievements without feeling impotent. Mark Sarvas has a big, wide-open heart -- how often has he championed criminally neglected writers? He is the voice of the many. You, sir, have revealed yourself to be nothing more than a modern-day oilman, scratching around in the literary dirt for spoils. Well, sir, the only thing you´re going to get is dirt under your fingernails.

Signed,

Mike Eagle