Rating: 
Summary: stupid stupid stupid
Review: did i say stupid..
this is the stupidist book of all time.
i saw family fewd..i went to many taping....free tikets
it wasn't that good of show....it was stupidi saw little house on the prarie..it never burned to the ground i wonder what my doctor's name for this book would be..
i bet......it would be..... within the context of.....the stupid group' this george trow guy....whats with the w.s..? william swift ?.....big deal. i kind of drunk right now...right now...as i write this..
im looking at my hands....my own hands...as i type this... sounds stupid....huh......... great book george.............lets meet over chili and beer and discuss.......dh
Rating: 
Summary: I was bored to death by this book
Review: George W. S. Trow is a former writer for the National Lampoon who I assume is trying to grow up at the "old age" of 55. Frankly, he was a better Lampoon writer. It isn't so much that what he's saying is untrue (yes, TV is banal and yes, it may be ruining us) but his attempt at creating a flashy and interesting prose style gets in the way of his message and makes one think there may not be much of a message, after all. There are far too many other books that treat the subject matter better than this to bother with this tiresome tome. A slim volume indeed...
Rating:
Summary: Terrific, strange, beautifully acute essay on mass culture
Review: I was thrilled to hear that this strange, brilliant book is being reissued. It's one of those books people press on their friends saying, "You should read this -- *really.*" My own copy has long been gone, pocketed by an acquaintance whom I pressed it on in an excess of generosity. The book itself is hard to describe. It's an elegant personal meditation on (among other things) the decline of WASP society, the effects of television and celebrity on American culture, and the author's inability to wear a fedora without crushing embarrassment. If memory serves, there's also a second essay about producer Ahmet Ertegun and his assistant David Geffen -- this was long before David Geffen was *David Geffen* -- that didn't seem as good at the time but may now seem prescient. Trow's elliptical, lapidary style gives you some of the dizzying feeling you get from David Foster Wallace, though his work is a lot shorter and more terse. Terrific stuff
Rating: 
Summary: Splendidly disjointed
Review: I will go out on a limb, John Irving notwithstanding, to say this book tends toward the silliness it seeks to describe. WTCONC is an almost gratifying read. The author's cut-up method is sometimes annoying. The last two pages are the strongest. I only wish the estimable Mr. Trow would elaborate on the sense of loss of his childhood days. This is a frame I wish I could revisit more often in the book. He certainly does not fit well, like many bohemians on the margins outside the grid of two million, with the temprament of this sorry age. The blurbs on the back cover of this edition are very embarrassing. Much like a beat-up fedora hat. Hardly vintage clothing. Hardly a watershed
Rating:
Summary: It's not that kind of book.
Review: If you read Within the Context of no Context expecting it to be a logical, orderly, scholarly work, you'll be sorely disappointed. Other scholars have tackled the same concepts much more thoroughly and persuasively than Trow did or ever could (extremely condensed list: Saussure and Barthes). But it's not that kind of book. It's the kind of book that you can't agree or disagree with. It's the kind of book a twelve-year-old could read. It's the kind of book you read large portions of to your roommates in the middle of the night. It's the kind of book you spill wine on. Trow does have a great deal of wisdom to offer in his quirky little book, and it's just as poignant today as it was in the seventies. But please, don't try to throw him into some scholarly realm. Some books don't need your assent to carry truth.
Rating:
Summary: stupid stupid stupid
Review: one doesn't want to admit it, but trow is dead-on in this book. these aren't observations that are new in any way, but they are presented in brilliant, crystaline prose that one can't exscape or deny.
Rating:
Summary: brilliant and scathing and right
Review: one doesn't want to admit it, but trow is dead-on in this book. these aren't observations that are new in any way, but they are presented in brilliant, crystaline prose that one can't exscape or deny.
Rating: 
Summary: At Least his Heart is in the Right Place
Review: One thing is almost guaranteed: the dumbing-down consumer- energizing mass media will always be with us. Politically, it is untouchable. It is created and owned by the left, which pretends to hate it and defended by the right, which pretends to like it. So I suppose we should treat Mr. Trow's criticism of the media like Samuel Johnson's dog. We shouldn't focus on how badly it's done, but marvel that it's done at all. Alas, it really is poorly done. Mr. Trow tries to be stylish and clever, but sacrifices reason and coherence to achieve it. He doesn't define his terms, so that his meaning is often ambiguous. In several places, one could draw two equally valid but contradictory interpretations of his text. If you look at the blurbs on the cover which praise the book, it is very clear what is wrong. Except for Michael Tolkin, the half dozen or so writers praising the book are a who's who of our brain dead media. Having John Irving lament the "terminal silliness of our culture" is like having Ronald MacDonald slam the terminal fattiness of our cuisine. And that's a pity, because Mr. Trow has some important things to say. As one who has admired Mr. Trow's work since his lovely play, The Tennis Game, these essays were very disappointing.
Rating:
Summary: At Least his Heart is in the Right Place
Review: One thing is almost guaranteed: the dumbing-down consumer- energizing mass media will always be with us. Politically, it is untouchable. It is created and owned by the left, which pretends to hate it and defended by the right, which pretends to like it. So I suppose we should treat Mr. Trow's criticism of the media like Samuel Johnson's dog. We shouldn't focus on how badly it's done, but marvel that it's done at all. Alas, it really is poorly done. Mr. Trow tries to be stylish and clever, but sacrifices reason and coherence to achieve it. He doesn't define his terms, so that his meaning is often ambiguous. In several places, one could draw two equally valid but contradictory interpretations of his text. If you look at the blurbs on the cover which praise the book, it is very clear what is wrong. Except for Michael Tolkin, the half dozen or so writers praising the book are a who's who of our brain dead media. Having John Irving lament the "terminal silliness of our culture" is like having Ronald MacDonald slam the terminal fattiness of our cuisine. And that's a pity, because Mr. Trow has some important things to say. As one who has admired Mr. Trow's work since his lovely play, The Tennis Game, these essays were very disappointing.
Rating:
Summary: Hate it with all my guts
Review: Some people are born writers; others, natural stylists. Some people come into the world with the enviable ability to philosophize; others are blessed with a no less enviable gift to think through an idea logically and clearly. Which puts G. W. S. Trow in an awkward position: for though he could not write well, he yet fancies himself a great stylist; and though his critical thinking is at best muddle-headed and derivative, he yet imagines himself an oracular critic of the sharpest distinction. Reading this re-publication of Trow's throw-away essay instantly brought to mind that immortal phrase Dwight Macdonald used to lampoon Jimmy Gould Cozzens's prose style: malphony exfoliates.
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