Table of Contents
QUENTIN ROWAN was born in New York City in 1976. His first novel, Assassin of Secrets, published under the name Q. R. Markham, was withdrawn shortly after publication when it was discovered to consist almost entirely of passages plagiarized from a wide variety of sources. Subsequently, earlier short stories of his that had appeared in The Paris Review, BOMB Magazine, and elsewhere proved to be largely plagiarized as well.
PRAISE, PRAISE, AND EVEN MORE PRAISE FROM THE INTERNET AND NEWSPAPERS FOR QUENTIN ROWAN
[Never Say Goodbye] is written in highly stylized, often grandiose language.
THE NEW YORKER
The reason that Quentins book [Assassin of Secrets] makes everyone so nervous and aggrieved is that it reminds us of the vast gray area that we all occupy.
JONATHAN LETHEM
I doubt hell get a real chance unless he writes under a nom de plume which, I suppose, could become his new addiction: hell claim he was addicted to shape-shifting into new literary identities when hes outed for that.
REX PICKETT
As for the idiot whos the focus of this article, I think hes exactly that: an idiot. And I find it disheartening that a thief gets all of this attention while so many authors who, you know, create things, are largely ignored.
ROBERT BROWNE
Everyone deserves a second chance, but pardon my skepticism. It just doesnt seem like an auspicious new beginning when someone whom people call a plagiarist pens an apology that rings so very false.
MARY ELIZABETH WILLIAMS
Oh, right. Jackass.
MEG GARDINER
Nobodys going to publish you anyway now.
JEREMY DUNS
In other news, its becoming clear that Quentin Rowan, perpetrator of this delicious fraud, is merely a sad little con.
CHAUNCEY MABE
If Rowan has any sense, he will completely disappear from the literary stage and never again, as Markham or as Rowan, try to publish his writing professionally.
PAUL CONSTANT
In the hundreds of newspaper articles and blog posts that have been published on the subject of Markhamgate in the past twenty-four hours, one question appears over and over: How did Rowan think hed get away with this, especially in the era of Google?
MACY HALFORD
This guy deserves to be a night manager at a Wendys. He deserves to NEVER be able to sell his work to a publisher again... I hope he gets run over by a truck.
THE BULLSHIT FIGHTER
This isnt really the right blog for this catchphrase, but Christ, what an asshole.
MUGATES
The guy is a talentless thief who deserves to be hauled up in front of his peers and [made to] account for his abhorrent actions.
SIMON GARDNER
Being addicted to bad decisions is not a disease. Its just being a douche weasel.
JOHN CLARK
I think people should take this asswipe as a cautionary tale.
JON HANSEN
Thanks for exposing Quentin Rowans noxious self-justification. He reminds [me] of those murder defendants at sentencing hearings who say I wish I could take it back, I wish I could give my life for hers, etc. just as sincere, and just as hollow.
PETER ROSOVSKY
You couldve called it the worlds first book mashup and gotten front-page coverage in VICE, you hipster douchebag.
JEREMY MEYERS
Probably no significance, but is that guy trying to look like Carlos the Jackal?
CAPTAIN TIGHTPANTS
He might have such thick skin [that this wont] bother him. But at least hell always be a really ugly ****.
DAVID SCHOFIELD
If you see this guy, chop his fingers off.
BLOOD SWEAT AND MURDER
I see through your bullshit, Quentin Rowan, and Im not happy. It doesnt matter if your literary novels do sell afterwards, because of your scheme. Youre a cheater and youre no better than any writer.
BENOIT LELIEVRE
This is epic. Biblical. The poor fucking... idiot.
SIMON
Come on, Rowan. You can write another book well be more interested the second time round. Now youve gone glamorising yourself, with your sleazy behavior. We want more, Rowan. Write us a dirty book. Were asking for it.
JOE MCCANN
You are awful. Hit your fucking knees, and ask God to forgive you.
ERIK SWANSON
Quentin, I live here in Brooklyn and Im a writer and Im telling you right now Im scouring the hipster dutchbag bars and hirsute coffee lounges for as long as it takes to find you, and when I do... Im going to grind your bones to make my bread.
TIMOTHY READY
People-pleasing? Hardly. If you dont feel capable of writing, why in the world are you trying to sell a novel? What were you going to do for an encore lift the combined works of Shakespeare and his contemporaries?
C. ANDREW WOLFE
S.T.F.U., you pomo hipster pseudo-intellectual.
LEAH RAEDER
Dont care to read anything written by this twat.
PECKSIE
I look forward to your next attempt to spin your theft into a cry for pity. Scum.
CURT
And to the prick who thought he could get away with it: piss off, and let real writers have a go at telling original stories, will you? Theres a good lad.
ALARMING
Anyone else think that he looks like a fat John Lennon?
MULLETS
Occams razor: hes just a douche.
SIRKOWSKI
The poor dumb bastard didnt just shoot himself in the foot on this one, he emptied the clip and reloaded, and there seem to be even more rounds left.
BRYCE
Odds are I could just hand him the gun and at this point, hed do it himself.
COMMANDER RNVR
Hit like if you think that Markham looks like a fat John Lennon.
JIM
What a maroon what an all-day sucker.
TURAFISH
Mr. Rowans self-serving list of excuses takes passive-aggressive douchebaggery to a whole new level.
ROB
Pay back the advance, and shut up Q.R. You are not a fat
Lennon, you are a fat Chapman.
PETER B.
Waaaaaah! Cry me a river, fuck face.
JOSH
Rowan is a total and complete dipshit.
STERN J.
And theres nothing hip about this four-eyed meatloaf.
POWERS BOOTHE
Quentin Rowan. Who in the hell does that to a defenseless infant?
CAT BALLOU
To my dear friend J:
As much as I miss you, I am glad that you are not here to see me now. I did something wrong, and the world laughed and pointed fingers and sent me to that island again. The one where shame blows in from the sea, green and smooth and reflective like glass, where they send child dictators who have overreached themselves? You were not only the first person I stole from but also the first person to forgive me. You would be thirty-five this year, married, and working as a scientist in Chicago. I write this confession for you, J, from my island perch.
CHAPTER ONE
(birth canal, C-section, pink and fuzzy, rain over the East River, Winston Churchill, vermicelli, crying like an Irishman for his whiskey)