tell me about it

Finally had time to read some of the "Battle of the Books" Brouhaha over The Disreputable History of Frankie Landau-Banks and it seems to basically come down to this: Some people love an omniscient narrative voice. Some people hate it.

I'm starting to really loathe the phrase "show, don't tell." Telling can be damn fine; telling can be fabulous. The Man in the Ceiling by Jules Feiffer is another obvious example.

I don't think it would bother me if it genuinely seemed a matter of personal taste, rather than a matter of people being irked by something they've been taught to be irked by.