by JULIET WATERS

"As a friend of Mordecai's for half a century," says William Weintraub on the back cover of Mordecai & Me: An Appreciation of a Kind, "I approached Joel Yanofsky's book with some misgivings. But these were quickly dispelled when I started reading..."

As a veteran book critic, I too had misgivings. My own experiences with Richler would easily fill this page, so I won't start. When Yanofsky confesses early on to defacing Richler's photo with devil horns I felt better. "When it comes to Richler," Yanofksy writes, "my mixed feelings have mixed feelings." And so begins the impressive task of writing a biography that will please not only Richler's friends, but also his enemies. The real question, however, is whether it will please the many readers who have become indifferent.

But first, I must air some frustrations-not with Richler, but with Yanofsky. It all started a few years ago when a senior editor barked at me for reviewing the first and only biography of Margaret Atwood. Why bother, he wanted to know. Hadn't I read Yanofsky's column where he pronounced Atwood insignificant? Good thing for Atwood that the 2000 and 2003 Booker Prize committees aren't such loyal Yanofsky fans.

Then there was his profile of Commonwealth award winner Jeffrey Moore, where Yanofsky claimed that the Montreal media-i.e. Joel Yanofsky-had ignored Moore until he was nominated. Had he read the glowing review I'd written the week the book was launched, he might not have found himself having to apologize. And then there was the year I was on the jury that awarded the QSPELL award to Life of Pi, a book that would later win the Booker, and Yanofsky would pronounce not worth finishing.

I looked forward to this opportunity to point out Yanofsky's many talents as a book critic, which more than make up for his remarkable lack of prescience. Except he beat me to the punch. Mordecai & Me is as much a book about the quirky, obsessive and somewhat pathetic lives of book critics as it is about the contradictory and interesting life and career of Richler. One of the standing jokes through this book is Yanofsky's terrible track record.

I wasn't around when Anne Michaels' Fugitive Pieces took the world by storm, but rest assured Yanofsky panned it. This joke evolves into a hilarious anecdote where Yanofsky is set up by CBC TV to receive the first news of the 2002 Booker Prize award with Yann Martel's parents. Soon after Yanofksy has been warmly embraced by the Martel family, and the ecstatic reaction has died down, Dennis Trudeau turns to Yanofsky and says, "This wasn't your choice, was it? You didn't even like this book."

At the same time there's something poignant about all this. Yanofsky has reviewed and interviewed hundreds of writers; that he picked Richler to write a book about bodes terribly for Richler's legacy. Yanofsky does much to make the reactionary, and often unpleasant, Richler fascinating, but he does little to convince anyone that Richler is one of the greats. The best argument he can come up with is that no other Canadian writer has ever created a character who has achieved the world-wide recognition of Duddy Kravitz. If character recognition were the mark of literary greatness, this would be excellent news for L.M. Montgomery, and the creator of Superman. Unfortunately it's irrelevant.

The debate over Richler's greatness, however, I will leave to fans and enemies. I'm here to rate this book, and I have few qualms about saying it's a wonderful, entertaining read. Neither an apology, nor an autopsy, it perfectly captures a consummate grievance collector who was born into a city that will always have an endless supply. It will delight anyone who's ever loved a writer, hated a writer, or wanted to be a writer. And maybe even the two or three people deluded enough to want to be book critics.

Mordecai & Me by Joel Yanofsky,
Red Deer Press, hc. 336pp, $34.95