A few years ago, someone posted a photo of a man walking through Brooklyn with a copy of Conversations With Friends tucked in the back of his trousers, the name Sally Rooney peeking out above his waistband. It was an accessory that telegraphed as much about his personal style as his choice in attire did. Less than a month earlier, the book critic Constance Grady had published an essay titled “The Cult of Sally Rooney,” deeming it “aspirational” to be a fan: “If you read Sally Rooney, the thinking seems to go, you’re smart, but you’re also fun—and you’re also cool enough to be suspicious of both ‘smart’ and ‘fun’ as general concepts.”
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