In reviewing Kockroach by Tyler Knox in the December 31 NYTimes Book Review, Matt Weiland writes:
Our finest literary critics hold no endowed chairs and never win prizes, yet their work has the poetry of truth about it and thereâ€™s nobody better at answering the fundamental question about any book, a question always more interesting and always harder to answer than whether itâ€™s any good: what is it really about? I mean, of course, the anonymous librarians who prepare the Cataloging in Publication data for the Library of Congress, the brief descriptive classifications that appear on the copyright page of most books. Is there a more succinct description of John Updikeâ€™s â€śRabbit, Runâ€ť than â€śMiddle class men â€” Fictionâ€ť? What writer doesnâ€™t envy the economy and force of â€śMassacres â€” Fictionâ€ť for Cormac McCarthyâ€™s â€śBlood Meridianâ€ť and â€śIndustrial accidents â€” Fictionâ€ť for Don DeLilloâ€™s â€śWhite Noiseâ€ť? And will there ever be a finer gloss on Marilynne Robinsonâ€™s â€śHousekeepingâ€ť than â€śEccentrics and eccentricities â€” Fictionâ€ť?