The Worst Book I Have Ever Read

 Maurice Bailey was a man who tried to take a sailing trip with his wife. The trip went off course, and the two amateurs were stranded in the ocean (on a tiny raft) for many weeks. Bailey came home and published the story of the disaster--and sales went through the roof.

Unfortunately, Bailey's *subsequent* voyage went very well--so the subsequent account (a *new* book) did not sell well. No one wants to read about a tediously successful voyage.

I thought about Bailey while I made my way through "Notes on Being a Man," perhaps the worst book I've ever read. I planned to stop reading around page 80. But my hatred for the book was so strong, it pushed me forward. I felt an intense pleasure in my loathing for the writer, Scott Galloway. Do you know how, if you follow the political spectrum way, way far left, eventually the radical libertarians actually begin to seem like radical conservatives? My disdain for Galloway became so powerful, it began to resemble enjoyment. Reading Galloway was like picking at a hangnail, savoring the irritation.

Galloway grew up in California and made some lucky business deals. He became a millionaire--in part because he developed an idea for a gift-giving company. Men could pay a servant to brainstorm creative last-minute gifts for neglected wives. Because Galloway is a millionaire, he feels entitled to give advice to other people. In his book, he looks at the crisis facing young men. Young men aren't dating; young men aren't finding employment; young men are addicted to their screens. Essentially, Galloway's thesis is this: "Young men should be more like me. They should reengineer their genetic histories so that they are *not* young in 2026; they should have the good sense to be young in 1960. Also, they should be white and heterosexual. And they should make frequent trips to the gym."

That's the entire book. It is shocking to me that this found a publisher--and then found readers. Galloway's smugness, lack of curiosity, and shallowness are traits that are evident on every page. I hated the book so much, it made me rethink my relationship with Harlan Coben. I sense that Coben is friendly with Galloway--can I really read Coben's thrillers if Coben has shown this lapse of judgment in his personal life?

It can be exhilarating to feel such stratospheric levels of contempt for a book and for a writer. So I don't mind having read "Notes on Being a Man." But I will try hard to never--never--encounter Galloway--in any way--in my future. Never again.