Kind of a contradiction in terms, isn't it? Modern classic. I'm not talking about the modern movement a la Woolf, Proust, et. al. I'm talking about modern to us. As in, contemporary- I know they're not TECHNICALLY the same thing but TECHNICALLY I don't care so.
As part of my never-ending Quest To Be A Better (re: well-rounded, open-minded) Person, I have tried to read more books written by people who are still alive this year. I've not done very well, to be honest, but I blame that on the mental stress of going from Lady With Two Cats to Lady With Twin Boys. I've done a bunch of posts about why I don't generally like modern books, and how I can count the ones I do like on two hands- sometimes one because I forget some.
But this phrase keeps coming back to me- what about modern CLASSICS? Books that are already accepted into the canon as MUY IMPORTANTE. Do these even exist? The first example I can think of is Infinite Jest, which is admittedly by a dead person but he would still be alive if left to live out his natural years. I'm sure some of Margaret Atwood's work would qualify. But the problem with a modern classic is that the best test of a book's staying power- time- hasn't had a chance to sift wheat from whatever that other thing is that isn't wheat.
So how do you discern what is a modern classic and what is just another flash in the pan- even if it's written by someone Very Important (I'm looking at you, Pynchon)? Is prize-winning the major criteria? Some professor saying so? Popularity (I really doubt it's this one)? A satirical mention in a Simpson's episode? Mention in the NYT? WHAT? Someone tell me.
Go.
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
Saturday, May 14, 2011
Is it REALLY better?
"Yeah, the book sucks. But AT LEAST it gets people reading."
I hate this sentence. It is the scourge of my existence. This sentiment separates me from a lot of you, I know- but I must shout it from the roof tops. Here goes: I WOULD RATHER YOU WATCH EDUCATIONAL TELEVISION OR LISTEN TO NPR THAN READ SHIT BOOKS.
That's right. I said it. And oh, I am putting on my snob-protection riot gear because I can hear some of you collecting stones with which to pummel me. And that's cool. Whatever floats your pebbles. What makes a book shit, and who decides, and blah blah. Well, around these parts I decide, so here we go.
The books I hear this sentence most commonly applied to are the Twilight series books and various James Patterson thingys. I think most of us can agree that that particular series is bad. I know there are a few of you out there who roll in glitter and run out in the sun pretending you sparkle, and hey, whatevs. But speaking of pure literary merit, it's got nada. It's fluffy fluff fluff Mayor of Fluffville, and we all know this. But at least people are reading, amirite NO YOU ARE NOT RIGHT.
But, lady, I hear you saying. Dickens was the Dan Brown of his generation! His books sold to The Regular Reader! James Patterson will STAND THE TEST OF TIME! Uh-huh- all that makes me think is that the "regular reader" of modern times is a moron. But, deep down, I don't really believe that. I don't think people around me that I see reading are morons. I have that moment of "what are they reading oh wait that book is crap well at least they're reading waaaaiiiitttttt a minute STOP THAT." I think the modern reader is frickin' smart. I think the modern reader can handle Dickens, and James Joyce (ok maybe not that one- I don't know many people who can) and Woolf and blah blah.
So why don't they? I rarely catch strangers in public reading Literature, and most people I know in real life don't read it, either. Reading is fun ladeda, and back in the day Dickens and Company were The Fun Guys. Is the attention span of the modern reader so much shorter that we have to resort to Lauren Conrad's book with the lips on it because our brains just. Can't. Handle. George Eliot? Are we actually stupider, or less appreciative of Good Writing than past generations? OR do good books have this air of Super Hard Snobbery around them that keeps most people away for fear that they will be bored/intimidated/feel stupid? Did the educational system and literary academia shroud good books in hardship?
Is it a combination of all of the above? I dunno. Explain it to me.
I hate this sentence. It is the scourge of my existence. This sentiment separates me from a lot of you, I know- but I must shout it from the roof tops. Here goes: I WOULD RATHER YOU WATCH EDUCATIONAL TELEVISION OR LISTEN TO NPR THAN READ SHIT BOOKS.
That's right. I said it. And oh, I am putting on my snob-protection riot gear because I can hear some of you collecting stones with which to pummel me. And that's cool. Whatever floats your pebbles. What makes a book shit, and who decides, and blah blah. Well, around these parts I decide, so here we go.
The books I hear this sentence most commonly applied to are the Twilight series books and various James Patterson thingys. I think most of us can agree that that particular series is bad. I know there are a few of you out there who roll in glitter and run out in the sun pretending you sparkle, and hey, whatevs. But speaking of pure literary merit, it's got nada. It's fluffy fluff fluff Mayor of Fluffville, and we all know this. But at least people are reading, amirite NO YOU ARE NOT RIGHT.
But, lady, I hear you saying. Dickens was the Dan Brown of his generation! His books sold to The Regular Reader! James Patterson will STAND THE TEST OF TIME! Uh-huh- all that makes me think is that the "regular reader" of modern times is a moron. But, deep down, I don't really believe that. I don't think people around me that I see reading are morons. I have that moment of "what are they reading oh wait that book is crap well at least they're reading waaaaiiiitttttt a minute STOP THAT." I think the modern reader is frickin' smart. I think the modern reader can handle Dickens, and James Joyce (ok maybe not that one- I don't know many people who can) and Woolf and blah blah.
So why don't they? I rarely catch strangers in public reading Literature, and most people I know in real life don't read it, either. Reading is fun ladeda, and back in the day Dickens and Company were The Fun Guys. Is the attention span of the modern reader so much shorter that we have to resort to Lauren Conrad's book with the lips on it because our brains just. Can't. Handle. George Eliot? Are we actually stupider, or less appreciative of Good Writing than past generations? OR do good books have this air of Super Hard Snobbery around them that keeps most people away for fear that they will be bored/intimidated/feel stupid? Did the educational system and literary academia shroud good books in hardship?
Is it a combination of all of the above? I dunno. Explain it to me.
Thursday, May 5, 2011
DNFing Makes Me Feel Dirty
Thomas Wolfe is kicking my ass. Look Homeward, Angel is 15 percent beautiful, partially non-sensical prose, 10 percent plot, and 75 percent WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT, THOMAS, AND WHY ARE THERE SO MANY COMMAS. I have only gotten 100 pages into it, despite having started it several weeks ago. This is unusual- even with the recent addition of two attention-starved newborns in my house, I can still finish a book at a decent clip, thank you very much.
So I might not finish it. For the uninitiated, DNFing (do not finish-ing) a book is a divisive topic in the book world. There are those who NEVER AND I MEAN NEVER put a book down without finishing it, no matter how painful. I suspect these are also people who trained themselves to be right handed despite actually being left, and who finish everything on their plate even when it's spinach (the nasty frozen kind), and who never return an item to the store even if it sprouts legs and tries to eat them.
I am not one of those people. I hate frozen spinach. That's not to say I DNF at the drop of a hat- that's another camp of people. Fickle, hard to please people. These are people who only drink fruity drinks at bars and who have the attention span of a goldfish. They twirl their hair. They giggle. They only buy books at airports when they can't find their latest issue of People, and, like, Oprah said this book was good (giggle).
I fall somewhere in between. More often then not, I'll push through a painful reading experience because I WILL NOT LET A BOOK DEFEAT ME. Sometimes I do realize that giving something that is sucky mcsuck suck more attention than it deserves IS letting it defeat me. Examples of this in my life include, but are not limited to: Twilight, in which I couldn't get past the first 20 pages. That one Nicky Sparks book about Mandy Moore in bad dresses. My grandmother gave it to me before I knew who Nicholas Sparks was, and INSISTED it was right up my alley. My grandmother, obviously, has never been to my alley. She doesn't know the planet on which my alley exists. Anywoot, I gave up on that one when I figured out the ending on page 10.
Then there's the second situation, which I suspect is happening now, wherein it's just not the right time. Look Homeward, Angel isn't bad- it's weird as hell and a bit of a slog. It's dense and punctuation-tastic. But not bad. I think I'll save it for when I'm feeling a bit more...uh...hmm...reflective on the simple things? Maybe at that point I can handle 5 pages on how some little kid likes to give presents to his family members. Five. Pages. Another example of Books I DNFed Because I Wasn't Ready include: Vanity Fair..and that's all I can remember. I hated every character in Vanity Fair, and I'm waiting until I mature as a reader and can handle a book where literally every page causes irritation.
I suspect I'll be waiting a long time.
So- where do you fall in the DNF camp? Are you a plower-througher? Do you use 'em and lose 'em halfway? Why do you think people are so divided by the issue?
So I might not finish it. For the uninitiated, DNFing (do not finish-ing) a book is a divisive topic in the book world. There are those who NEVER AND I MEAN NEVER put a book down without finishing it, no matter how painful. I suspect these are also people who trained themselves to be right handed despite actually being left, and who finish everything on their plate even when it's spinach (the nasty frozen kind), and who never return an item to the store even if it sprouts legs and tries to eat them.
I am not one of those people. I hate frozen spinach. That's not to say I DNF at the drop of a hat- that's another camp of people. Fickle, hard to please people. These are people who only drink fruity drinks at bars and who have the attention span of a goldfish. They twirl their hair. They giggle. They only buy books at airports when they can't find their latest issue of People, and, like, Oprah said this book was good (giggle).
I fall somewhere in between. More often then not, I'll push through a painful reading experience because I WILL NOT LET A BOOK DEFEAT ME. Sometimes I do realize that giving something that is sucky mcsuck suck more attention than it deserves IS letting it defeat me. Examples of this in my life include, but are not limited to: Twilight, in which I couldn't get past the first 20 pages. That one Nicky Sparks book about Mandy Moore in bad dresses. My grandmother gave it to me before I knew who Nicholas Sparks was, and INSISTED it was right up my alley. My grandmother, obviously, has never been to my alley. She doesn't know the planet on which my alley exists. Anywoot, I gave up on that one when I figured out the ending on page 10.
Then there's the second situation, which I suspect is happening now, wherein it's just not the right time. Look Homeward, Angel isn't bad- it's weird as hell and a bit of a slog. It's dense and punctuation-tastic. But not bad. I think I'll save it for when I'm feeling a bit more...uh...hmm...reflective on the simple things? Maybe at that point I can handle 5 pages on how some little kid likes to give presents to his family members. Five. Pages. Another example of Books I DNFed Because I Wasn't Ready include: Vanity Fair..and that's all I can remember. I hated every character in Vanity Fair, and I'm waiting until I mature as a reader and can handle a book where literally every page causes irritation.
I suspect I'll be waiting a long time.
So- where do you fall in the DNF camp? Are you a plower-througher? Do you use 'em and lose 'em halfway? Why do you think people are so divided by the issue?
Sunday, May 1, 2011
"Death Comes For the Archbishop" by Willa Cather
I wish this book had a different name. I spent a good portion of it thinking every event was going to..you know..bring the death. What? The Archbishop is drinking wine? Is he going to choke? He's planting a peach tree? Is it going to fall over on him? He's traveling 4,000 miles to Baltimore? Well something death-tastic must happen! (spoiler) Le no. A big clue should've been how he's called BISHOP for the whole book, until about the last 20 pages. When he's old. All of that to say- don't spend 300 pages waiting for death to come for the archbishop around every corner. Death's busy. Death's playing poker in his basement with his buddies. He's drinking a 40 and watching Jerry Springer.
MOVING ON.
My feelings about Willa Cather have been mixed. My Antonia? No me likey-d. O, Pioneers! - me uber-likey-d. So, of course, I'm sort of meh about Death Comes for the Archbishop.
Like all her other books that I've read so far, this one is like a landscape painting. The characters take a backseat to the countryside. I've never read an author as skilled at talking about trees and shrubs and rocks without being boring. I mean, you CARE about the shrubs. You want to know more about its shrubby-ness. The characters are just a side note, passing through the field of your peripheral vision while you stare at the shrub.
The book is about two Catholic missionary priests who leave Ohio to take over the church's biz-nass in New Mexico in the mid-1800's. There is a plethora of Catholic-speak that left me sorta confused a large portion of the time. What's a diocese? Sounds like a cheese. Also: the only reason I know what a Vicar is is because of Eddie Izzard stand up. See also: cassock, breviary, and any reference to the Catholic church's hierarchy. I got the general gist, as I'm sure most readers would, but an appendix would be helpful. Anywoot, the two priests go to New Mexico and get about aforementioned biz-nass, which mostly consists of marrying folks, blessing babies (who is running for governor?), hearing confessions and...gardening.
This had the potential to be massively boring. Luckily, it was only mildly boring. The two priests are well-drawn characters instead of religious stereotypes. Cather does an uber happy job of balancing her obsession with shrubbery and her telling of the story. It's rather non-linear, with the plot development consisting mostly of flashbacks interspersed with scenes of priests buying mules. Or riding mules. Or talking about the mules.
It's not the best Cather I've ever read, but it's not the worst. It's just nice. It's atmospheric and calm. I didn't love it with the fire of a thousand burning suns, but I'm not planning to use my copy for target practice.
Three stars out of your mom.
MOVING ON.
My feelings about Willa Cather have been mixed. My Antonia? No me likey-d. O, Pioneers! - me uber-likey-d. So, of course, I'm sort of meh about Death Comes for the Archbishop.
Like all her other books that I've read so far, this one is like a landscape painting. The characters take a backseat to the countryside. I've never read an author as skilled at talking about trees and shrubs and rocks without being boring. I mean, you CARE about the shrubs. You want to know more about its shrubby-ness. The characters are just a side note, passing through the field of your peripheral vision while you stare at the shrub.
The book is about two Catholic missionary priests who leave Ohio to take over the church's biz-nass in New Mexico in the mid-1800's. There is a plethora of Catholic-speak that left me sorta confused a large portion of the time. What's a diocese? Sounds like a cheese. Also: the only reason I know what a Vicar is is because of Eddie Izzard stand up. See also: cassock, breviary, and any reference to the Catholic church's hierarchy. I got the general gist, as I'm sure most readers would, but an appendix would be helpful. Anywoot, the two priests go to New Mexico and get about aforementioned biz-nass, which mostly consists of marrying folks, blessing babies (who is running for governor?), hearing confessions and...gardening.
This had the potential to be massively boring. Luckily, it was only mildly boring. The two priests are well-drawn characters instead of religious stereotypes. Cather does an uber happy job of balancing her obsession with shrubbery and her telling of the story. It's rather non-linear, with the plot development consisting mostly of flashbacks interspersed with scenes of priests buying mules. Or riding mules. Or talking about the mules.
It's not the best Cather I've ever read, but it's not the worst. It's just nice. It's atmospheric and calm. I didn't love it with the fire of a thousand burning suns, but I'm not planning to use my copy for target practice.
Three stars out of your mom.
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