Michiko: “It’s a book as hip and intermittently tender as Dave Eggers’s ‘Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius,’ as gripping and overstuffed as David Foster Wallace’s ‘Infinite Jest.'”

L.A. Times: “The main problem is that Wilsey hews too closely to the McSweeney literary model: typographical tricks, hyper-fluency in pop culture and exuberantly high-pitched prose. All conspire against the emotional registers he so wants to express.”

Francine Prose: “To write about the sufferings of the well-to-do imposes a certain set of demands on a writer, and Wilsey rises to the challenge with agility and grace. His narrative voice reflects a vivid mix of brio, self-awareness and sophistication, and he is able to meld the point of view of the troubled boy he once was with that of the stable and sensible adult that he has, admirably and against all odds, become.”

Village Voice: “…if the book slips at all, it’s in Wilsey’s willingness to cast her in the one-dimensional role of wicked stepmother.”

Frankly, I’m a bit tired of all the Sean Wilsey coverage. Another book-length journey down McSwee’s Way might permanently damage my cerebral cortex. But the reviews seem to be hailing the memoir, Oh the Glory of It All, as the cat’s pajamas. So I can’t help but remain curious about this memoir, particularly since David Foster Wallace’s name has been invoked. I really don’t feel the urge to run out and get this book, but if an enterprising publicist were to send a copy to me, I’d certainly give it an honest assessment. And if it were indeed the bomb (exploding in whatever timbre), then you’d certainly hear from me.