On July 14, 2016, as part of an in-depth feature on Natalie Portman, The New York Times published an email exchange between Portman and the novelist Jonathan Safran Foer (inexplicably featuring many photos of Portman wearing scant clothing). Foer’s emails represented some of the strangest malaise ever expressed in a major American newspaper. In an effort to plunge into the tortured depths of Foer’s soul, I have recorded a dramatic reading of the emails, with the hope that this recording might help future generations make sense of the Foer predicament.
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I can’t do it. I clicked the link and read several paragraphs of what has to be the weirdest expression of narcissism available on the internet, and I care about the contents of my stomach too much.
I don’t fully understand Foer; he seems intelligent enough to be respected enough to be the new face of the literary circle-jerk, but then he goes and operates like some kind of inflated emo kid. He’s too afraid to embrace his own self-importance enough to be interesting, and the result is that which he’s obviously trying to constantly escape: he’s become the embodiment of pretentiousness.