Despite her self-enforced exile in Brooklyn, Janowitz is not immune to the glittery lure of success. Last week she attended her celebrity-studded book party in the Hamptons, where guests toasted her "latest comeback." Not surprisingly, however, she's still a bit sensitive. "Every book I write, the media just keeps punching me in the face," she complains. She's angry over a Vogue squib on A Certain Age: "Needs to look up the definition of satire, reread her book, and die of shame." There is clearly a hurt about her career that goes deep. At one point in A Certain Age, Florence reluctantly agrees to go to a concert in Carnegie Hall. The people looked even worse now that she was getting to observe them close up, writes Janowitz. There was a woman she recognized from the papers as a relatively well-known writer -- probably in her late thirties, with long black frizzy hair, schlumpy, wearing a long plaid skirt and red sweater, completely out-of-style. Why didn't she do something to fix herself up, it seemed ridiculous to live in Manhattan and not be attuned to the right thing to wear and how to look. No wonder she hadn't had a successful novel in at least ten years.
Please, Tama, don't go there.
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