Critics don’t often agree; it comes with the territory. Sometimes they come together to particularly trounce or celebrate a new work, but for the most part it’s like herding cats. They’re all over the place as a rule.

But every so often the critical stars align and everybody gets on the same page. Occasionally that unity is because the critical establishment has just witnessed the creation of an astonishing new piece of work that reinvents the form and makes them remember why they got into this damn job to begin with. And sometimes, just sometimes, critics unify in order to train all their firepower on a thing so botched, so foolish, and so irredeemable that they seem barely able to comprehend what they are witnessing.

Right now, that thing is Naomi Wolf’s Vagina. E.J. Graff at the American Prospect (whose critic Jaclyn Friedman had already memorably accused the book of a “breathtaking narcissism“) has done an excellent summation of the more incredulous, “somebody printed this?!” responses. First, though, Graff notes that she hasn’t read the book yet, and in a sense, doesn’t want or even need to; the reviews are good enough:

Everything I know about it comes from what other people have told me. And let me tell you, am I ever grateful for those reviews, which tell me I never want to put my hands on it. In fact, as far as I can tell, the entire public purpose of Naomi Wolf, at this point in her brilliant career, is to be the target of other folks’ smart sentences.

Graff’s roundup is here, and there are some jawdroppers. Enjoy.