The letter is brusque, dismissive, almost offhand: “Painter was vaguely detective, vaguely ethnographer, vaguely erudite American shit . . . there is nothing to talk about.” Deleuze’s refusal is not just aesthetic but ethical. He will not write against the book, and will not even linger on it. It does not merit response, and response (real criticism) requires at least a minimal sense of esteem.

I kept this fragment because I share the instinct. There is only one post I recall writing here about a book I thought bad, and I later deleted it. The author, also a “vaguely erudite American shit,” wrote to correct something, although I have forgotten the name, the title, and even the error. I remember only the atmosphere of distaste. It is a relief to forget such things. These are books that leave nothing behind but a sense of having been cornered by cleverness or flattered into boredom. It is better, in such cases, not to write about them at all.

There is a way in which the refusal to criticise becomes a form of discipline. It is not merely a silence, but a decision to turn attention elsewhere. This is not for the sake of politeness or charity, but because writing deserves more than a rehearsal of disdain. The bar, as Deleuze puts it, is esteem, however small or provisional. Without that, there is nothing to think with, only the wreckage that remains after having read.