The reverse review
Suggesting a new genre
How to make bubbles burst? Rather than the much-discussed digital filters or political tribes, I am talking about cognitive bubbles that are surprisingly common in academia. Of course, funders encourage “interdisciplinary” or even “transdisciplinary” projects, but in reality, it is very challenging to productively combine different mindsets and methods within an overarching framework. Interdisciplinarity often ends up being merely additive: a vague overarching theme holds the edited volumes together while everyone is basically just doing their own thing. One is more likely to encounter successful cross-disciplinary productivity at the individual level: polymath figures like Tyler Cowen pair profound subject-matter expertise with a restless curiosity about other fields.
Lately, I’ve developed a bit of an obsession with how to break through the often-unnoticed echo chambers within the humanities. In an initial proposal, I suggested taking a cue from forward-deployed engineering to get beyond an “application” mentality: the goal isn’t to implement “correct” solutions, but rather to develop them on the ground. I’d like to make a second suggestion in this post: a “new” genre I’m tentatively calling the “reverse review.”
Reviews are a well-established format in academic discourse and intellectual life. Knowledgeable critics use their taste to navigate the influx of new releases, giving readers direction through positive picks and the occasional takedown. There’s nothing to be said against this genre, which is currently enjoying a new heyday right here on Substack. I’ve published more than 150 reviews myself, mostly of new literary releases, but also public-facing non-fiction and academic works. And yet, I find myself increasingly wondering what to make of the asymmetry inherent in the art of reviewing. What entitles a reviewer to pass judgment on books? Wouldn’t it be worth a try to reverse the direction and let the books become the critics of those who read them?
I envision it this way: a reverse review requires readers to use a book to question their own assumptions. What can I, as a cultural theoretician, gain from reading a book on evolutionary biology? Or economics? Or medicine? Can I, as a philosopher, learn something from the memoirs of a chef? As a writer, from a book about computer languages? The goal would be to immerse yourself in an entirely different way of thinking and push yourself beyond your mental comfort zone. Without overlaying your own patterns. Without trying to see through things. Without acting like you already have it all figured out.
While this kind of approach to reading might seem normal to many, I often find that the academic world—especially in the humanities—operates quite differently. Deconstruct a discourse, contextualize it, and call it a day. In contrast, the reverse review could be an exercise in returning to a learning mindset by systematically challenging internal jargon and ingrained biases. It would require one to account for blind spots and to articulate wavering beliefs and newly posed questions.
The more profoundly and precisely a book succeeds in challenging the reader, the better the reverse review would turn out.