INNER WORKINGS is a collection of 21 essays by J.M. Coetzee, 16 of which first appeared (in an earlier form) in the "New York Review of Books." With the sole exception of Walt Whitman, all of the subjects are authors of the 20th century (several are still alive and productive, though years from now they surely will be thought of as 20th-century writers). For the most part the essays follow the format common to the "New York Review of Books": some biographical information about the author; relatively brief discussion of his (or, in the case of Nadine Gordimer, her) place or significance in 20th-century literature; more detailed discussion of one or more works of the author; and, where applicable, some mention of the merits of the translation into English.
I was prompted to buy the book when, picking it up in the bookstore last week and skimming its table of contents, I saw that a number of the essays deal with authors I have been reading in the past two or three years -- specifically, the ones listed in the title to this review. I have now read the essays on those authors, as well as ones on Italo Svevo, Robert Musil, and Graham Greene. If and when I have time to read (or re-read) several other authors covered in the book (e.g., Samuel Beckett, Saul Bellow, Gabriel Garcia Marquez, and Philip Roth), I will make a point of going back and reading what Coetzee has to say about them.
The essays are intelligent and informative, well-written and easily comprehensible. There is no in-depth analysis or exegesis, but neither are the essays superficial. Only in some of the essays does Coetzee express strong critical judgments. A few of those are negative. (For instance, he concludes that Sandor Marai's novelistic achievements are "slight.") I don't think INNER WORKINGS constitutes literary criticism or analysis of the first order, but that's alright by me. In each essay I read there was enough new information or fresh perspectives on the author and work(s) at issue to make my reading the essay worth my time.
I will end by quoting two sentences from Coetzee's essay on W.G. Sebald: "Sebald did not call himself a novelist -- prose writer was the term he preferred -- but his enterprise nevertheless depends for its success on attaining lift-off from the biographical or the essayistic -- the prosaic in the everyday sense of the word -- into the realm of the imaginative. The mysterious ease with which he is able to achieve such lift-off is the clearest proof of his genius."