I think he is correctly diagnosed as schmaltzy and precious but at his best, there is nobody who writes towards my philosophy of love and purpose quite like George Saunders.
The strongest critique you can level at Liberation Day is that it is an also-ran; it lacks the ambition of [[Lincoln in the Bardo]] and it lacks the sustained quality of [[Tenth of December]]. It is certainly lesser works than both books,
and feels more spiritually akin to [[Someone Who Will Love You In All Your Damaged Glory]] — a collection that I loved not because I thought it was a particularly excellent or interesting work of literature but because it touched my heart.
There is a same-i-ness to the questions Saunders asks in this book: all variations on a question of what do we owe each other and ourselves in a world with no faith in exogenous redemption?. His answer has not changed much: we
owe ourselves — and each other — respect and love and kindness. He writes a compelling humanism with a prose and wit that make me cry and laugh; he is schmaltzy and he is precious and so am I, on my best days.