Ten pages into Jennifer Egan’s Look at Me and I can already safely say it’s like getting rustic, homemade fare from an authentic Italian grandmother after eating the Chef Boyardee that was The Age of Miracles. Look, I’m happy Karen Thompson Walker got like a million dollars for that book and that it’ll absolutely become a big movie, but man, I was disappointed with the writing and the story and basically everything but the general conceit. Happy to be back to a true master who in no way gives me superior I can do better than this feelings while reading. Egan inspires nothing but those writerly mainstays of awe and incompetence and a desire to try and be awesome anyway, and it’s great.