Critics have not hesitated to point out that Peck's "I'm only beating you for your own good" stance resonates creepily with his autobiographical writings about his abusive father.
But Peck isn't merely a bully, and he certainly isn't stupid. Whatever authority others invest in him as an occasional reviewer at the New Republic, he still feels like an outsider, and with cause. He is a gay man from a working-class background and, perhaps hardest of all, a minor novelist, well acquainted with the business end of a stinging review. When he isn't hopelessly enmeshed in his own tangled motivations, he can be an astute and even sensitive critic. His essay on Kurt Vonnegut, one of only two approving pieces in the otherwise aptly titled "Hatchet Jobs," is moving and rather brave; for a critic so intent on demonstrating his own intellect and discrimination, it takes some guts to embrace an author often written off as middlebrow.
Most of the essays lack that kind of courage or clarity, however. Whatever flashes of wit and perception Peck shows, and notwithstanding the extensive knowledge of English grammar and nonreproductive sexual practices he makes a point of showing off whenever possible, the emotional tone here is petulant and muddled.