This weekend, a bookstore clerk was ranting about how much she loved reading Miss Lonelyhearts, so I figured I could give it a re-read, since it’s been a few decades since I perused it. Unfortunately, my opinion of Nathanael West still stands— I classify him in the grimy bucket along with Norman Mailer of filthy modern slop that remains unappetizing to me at the moment. Viewed completely objectively, the story is a wonder, pub’d in 1933 and well ahead of its time for darkness, bleakness, hopelessness. But I have little tolerance for books that suggest women authors need a “good rape” after complaining about the number of female writers. The story is an acidic bath of lemonade without the sugar, propped up on the flimsy prospects of an advice columnist in NYC.