I have a hard time with John Gray, not because I think he’s wrong – though I do – but because I think he’s right.
(Anyone who can’t hold more than one contradictory thought in his head at a time has no business reading Gray.)
Our foremost chronicler of the stark cliff that what passes for modern thought comes to when taken far enough, his work is a necessary, even joyful, antidote to the easy delusions that come pre-packaged in a comfortable 21st century Western life, like so much salt in a Happy Meal.
But while the philosophical chemotherapy he offers is a tasty butterscotch, one can’t help but wonder if in some ways the cure is worse than the disease.
I’m not going to settle this question. But I’m reminded to ask it because of a wonderful review of Gray’s latest work in the L.A. Review of Books, which you should read right now.