I'm mystified by the first two major reviews I've read of James Frey's Bright Shiny Morning, a sprawling novel set in Los Angeles by the author who dared to lie to Oprah.

I suppose one is expected to have a strong opinion about Frey, one way or the other, but I really don't. After the first thing I ever read about him -- a New York Observer profile full of undisguised, even proud, foolishness -- I threw him in the indifference bin.

In Time, Lev Grossman delivers a mostly positive review of the new novel, but also writes things like this: "The worst bits of Morning are probably worse than anything else you'll read this year, but Frey is such a relentlessly entertaining storyteller that you just won't care."

Hmm. You've got to be pretty relentless to make me not care about the worst bits I've read all year.