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Debates over what makes “great” literature are as predictable
as ants drawn to a sugar cube, attracting pundits, reviewers, critics, and a
ton of I’ve-read-a-lot-of-books people to the sweet yet empty calories of armchair
literary criticism. To see what I mean, (and for a bit of fun) just head on
over to Yahoo! Answers and find the thread on “What makes great literature?”
where a young avatar is looking for help in writing a “5 page paper on the
topic.” The thread includes some interesting observations (I like, in
particular, the notion that the consensus of the professorial elite has much to
do with what is and isn’t considered great), but quickly devolves into pithy responses
like this one: “I like to read certain books because they make me angry or sad
or feel cheated with shitty writing…. That being said, I read mostly cookbooks
and watch South Park almost daily.”
Interestingly, the professorial elite fare only slightly
better (though with dramatically improved grammar). James Averill of the
University of Massachusetts, Amherst, says that “I do not pretend to have an
answer to this question” of what makes literature great, but then goes on to write
that “great literature appeals to the emotions.” (So I guess he does have an answer!) That response isn’t
all that different from the one given by our cookbook reader, even if it does
win on style points.
David Foster Wallace, late and great, put it more simply: “Fiction’s
about what it is to be a fucking human being.”
I like that. Simpler and to the point.
Meanwhile, at the other end of the mannered spectrum, Harold
Bloom, the well-respected if rather stuffy literary critic, will tell you that “[w]hat
matters in literature in the end is surely the idiosyncratic, the individual,
the flavor or the color of a particular human suffering,” a roundabout way, as
I read it, of saying that pain is perhaps the
key component of truly great literature.
*****
There are many types of pain, some incredibly subtle.
Last weekend my wife capitalized on a spur-of-the-moment
invitation and traveled down to New Jersey for a mini-family reunion of sorts,
hosted by her son (my stepson). Due to various factors (including a rapidly
aging pet we prefer not to kennel) we couldn’t both attend, so I stayed behind.
I’m not unused to such solitude; my wife travels five or six times a year for
periods that range from a few days to sometimes two weeks and I, being an
introvert (or “hermit,” as she styles it) quite look forward to the time alone.
This time, though, felt different.
There wasn’t much I had to “do” (in the “Honey-do” sense). The
lawn had just been mowed (she does that) and the kitchen recently cleaned (me).
I needed to pick up a couple of cans of dog food, and there was load of laundry
basketed and waiting, but other than that I was on my own and, with a pile of
praised Pulitzers before me, seemed all set to enjoy a wonderful couple of
days. Nestled in family-room leather, I settled in.
Great books do have the flavor, the color of human suffering,
Harold. You’re right.
I hit four books this week; all of them were wonderful, and all
of them held an overpowering sense of loneliness. They spread across nearly three-quarters
of a century, varied in style, plot, and theme, yet each weighed on me so
deeply that, at times, I wasn’t sure I even wanted to move. The fates of the
characters in Thornton Wilder’s The
Bridge of San Luis Rey left me feeling like I wanted to reach through the
pages and provide solace, warmth, and caring, to give each of them a kind word,
a sense that fate was not merely fate, but that their lives had purpose, gave meaning
to others. The simple tour driver in Jhumpa Lahiri’s “The Interpreter of
Maladies,” seemed pathetically lonely and sad; as I ended the story I felt a
heaviness in my legs and arms that I hadn’t noticed before. And Scarlet Sister Mary,
ultimately broken down by herself and her community, broke me down as well;
tears muddied my view of the last few pages.
I wanted to share this feeling, this experience, with my
wife, but she was in New Jersey, and for the first time in a long while I was
less bewitched by solitude. Instead, I was lonely.
I read somewhere that the true definition of a successful
marriage is when two people can be alone together. The occasional smile passes
between them, along with a quickly shared story. Beneath it all is a wondrous
love built on appreciation and flaws, on hands held and words exchanged, on
glances and touches and quiet and noise and children and parents and time. And
time. These books had made me feel that I wanted to be alone together, and not
alone alone. I wanted the weekend to be over. Literature and absence combined
into an isolating womb. I missed her, and was glad when the dogs’ barking signaled
her car coming up the driveway, coming home.
*****
Right about now I’m wishing to read one of the funny books
on this list. Unfortunately they don’t come with indicative titles. Is Tinkers funny? Or A Summons to Memphis? I can’t be sure. I do know to stay away from The Edge of Sadness or The Old Man and the Sea. Or anything by
Faulkner. If I hadn’t already read it, I’d probably go right for A Confederacy of Dunces; that title
seems somewhat amusing. And it is funny. It really is. Only Ignatius J. Reilly
really is quite lonely, after all.
Read since last post:
·
The
Optimist’s Daughter, Eudora Welty (1973)
·
The Interpreter
of Maladies, Jhumpa Lahiri (2000)
·
Scarlet
Sister Mary, Julia Peterkin (1929)
·
The Bridge
of San Luis Rey, Thornton Wilder (1928)
Currently Reading, Despite Wanting to Read Something Funny:
·
The Old
Man and the Sea, Ernest Hemingway (1953)
Just Realized I Hadn’t Read, but Only Saw the Movie:
·
The Color
Purple, Alice Walker (1983)
Currently Causing Hallucinations:
·
Honey in
the Horn, H. L. Davis (1936)
COUNT: 17 read, 71 to go
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