Godammit, I’m Mad!

Years ago, I read the story “A good Man is Hard to Find“ at the recommendation of a friend. I remember staying up late to finish it, and fighting the urge to call my friend to berate her for failing to warn me about the story’s brutal impact.

Now I’ve just read Flannery O’Connor’s second novel, “The Violent Bear it Away“ with no prompting from anyone and no one to blame for my distress except for the writer’s merciless vision and brilliant prose. Her writing is peculiar, terrifying, and exhilarating. (If you’re thinking about writing fiction, it will certainly take the wind out of your sails.)

Flannery O’Connor is now officially my idol. She is fearless in going after her characters and relentless in probing their twisted relationships with god and/or morality.

Here’s what the poet Robert Lowell says: ”Much savagery, compassion, farce, art, and truth have gone into these stories. O’Connor’s characters are wholeheartedly horrible, and almost better than life. I find it hard to think of a funnier or more frightening writer.” 

I could not agree more. If you’re looking for a book to remove you from your everyday reality and you’re not afraid to explore the dark Southern Gothic heart of the heart of darkness, you could not do better than “The Violent Bear it Away.”  

Let me know if you read it, or if you have any recommendations for me.

61 year old fatwa-survivor Salman Rushdie parties with actress girlfriend Pia Glenn, 32.

She admits that she’s impressed by Rushdie’s Booker Prize. He, on the other hand, ———————- (complete this sentence.)

Yesterday, I came across a delightful discussion about books at Salon.com . People were invited to recall a book they really hated.

It was a funny and interesting thread, which I would like to copy (since that’s the sincerest form of flattery, Salon.com!)   I was surprised that more people didn’t name Moby Dick. As I have already mentioned somewhere, Moby Dick is my own Moby Dick.

I loved that someone asked if he was allowed to hate a book he’d never read. He wanted to hate the work of Charles Bukowski, and I know what he means. I hate every book by Chuck Palahniuk, without having read them.   So hating a book Just Because is okay with me.

I will begin with “The Awakening” by Kate Chopin.   I hate that book. I can’t imagine anyone not hating it. And yet it is often assigned reading in high school. Is it because teachers want to make sure that guys grow up to hate “women writers?” I felt so sorry when my oldest son had to read it. I assured him that it was not representative of good fiction written by women. I probably said something like, “Oh god, what a fucking awful book! Ugh, they’re trying to torture you!”

I hated that book because its prose is so leaden and tedious. I can still recall the hideous yellow cover of the paperback after all these years.

I also hate Ulysses, and anyone who says how great it is. Not that I’ll ever read it.

Okay, does anyone have a book to revile?

In this essay, a writer discusses how we tend to judge people by the books they read. In my life, this is certainly true, although I don’t think I’ve broken up with anyone on that basis. The essay is full of book snobs recounting how disgusted they were upon discovering that a suitor was reading Ayn Rand, or even worse.

It’s pretty stupid when you read about it, and now I’m regretting my snobbery. One guy in the essay is repelled by anyone who claims to be reading Samuel Beckett. But Beckett is so good! Why shouldn’t one be allowed to read him without being considered an asshole?

Personally, I hold my greatest contempt for anyone who even talks about reading Ulysses. I know they’ve never read it, or else they tried and failed. I’m not crazy about anyone who loves Cormac McCarthy, but I’m aware that some otherwise great people appear to worship him. People who read or mention Anais Nin are also a red flag. It makes me feel sad for them.

The people in this essay seem to feel superior to everyone whose taste isn’t as highbrow as their own, but that is a problem for anyone trying to maintain their sense of elitist entitlement. For me, it’s a distrust of pretentiousness. Even a whiff of it will annoy me. At the same time, I would be hesitant about anyone who reads best-sellers.

I’ve solved this problem somewhat by not reading any more. I still buy books, but I have no attention span. I read book reviews and feel nostalgic about the transcendent pleasure of good fiction.

I recently found my self pretending to know the works of Gogol, rather than admit my ignorance. I feel I should get credit for Gogol, since I’ve read my share of Tolstoy. And I once became infatuated with someone because he loved “The Pigeon” only to find out later that he’d never read it.

I worry that I may be losing my edge, since I’m not as disdainful as the book snobs in the essay. I used to ruin many a dinner party by arguing about books. However, I do think it’s funny that there’s a dating site for fans of Ayn Rand. Ugh! They deserve each other!