Some new novelist had the awful idea of writing a sequel to Little Women - a pastiche in Alcott's style. This is the sort of idea you laugh about over drinks. or dream up in a freshman dorm party.
It won a Pulitzer for author Geraldine Brooks (right). We're talking about March.
From Amazon: "I think that if Louisa May Alcott were alive today, this is a book that she could have written, and I think she would approve of what Brooks has done."
I myself think of Alcott as being in a better place, if I can use such a tender, Pulitzer-worthy turn of phrase. I'm not sure she cares who is comandeering her reputation or spoiling the enjoyment of her novels.
At least one Amazon poster is unhappy: "I don't know how Ms. Brooks could take a high-minded chaplain, circa 1860, and turn him into an adulterer who 'married' his minister-sister's wife out in a tryst..." I know how: by following the advice of her editors and the conventions demanded of bus station literature.
Amazon also posted the inevitable: "Louisa May Alcott must be rolling in her grave."
I'm rolling in a virtual grave on her behalf.