Thank you for killing my novel

The novelist Patrick Somerville isn't angry that the New York Times panned his book. He prefaced his story honestly with this, on the extent to which a review can affect him:

I have some writer friends who claim to read none of their reviews, and some who claim to be indifferent, and although I can prove nothing, I believe that they are all, every one of them, lying through their teeth. It’s too easy. The Internet is too easy. “This Bright River” is my fourth book, but it’s been the same for each one, and they all have their distinct crucibles, and I’m sure it’ll be the same if I ever make it to 20: I read the reviews of my books and I am greatly affected by the reviews of my books. I can’t help it. They matter, both artistically and commercially. They scare me and I love them. How other people react is a part of storytelling. What reviewers say affects the book’s life. And because of this, the week before the reviews come, I am catatonic, greatly troubled by the storms of anticipation.

This reminds me of an article in the Los Angeles Review of Books a little while ago, about being reviewed by the critic James Wood. You can find it here. On a related note, I remember a video in which Christopher Hitchens said that he had managed to outgrow the stage during which a negative review can ruin your day. Having been a literary critic himself for the Atlantic, he said, he knew 'the game' too well to take it seriously.