Book Snobbery

I have a friend that prides herself on the exclusivity of the books she reads. J.R. is a lot like me in many respects. She grew up in the same area of Western New York, she went to school for psychology and took literature courses along the way, and she’s a bit of a grammar queen. She loves a good book and when she finds one, the business of her life will go by the wayside until she finishes it, at which point life may resume. She emphasizes with characters, gets emotionally involved in the story, and tells other people about it.

But she is also highly, highly critical of books that she reads. If she doesn’t admire the writing style, like the story, or just plain doesn’t get sucked in immediately, she puts the book aside and says “That one’s not for me.” I’ve had conversations with her about this, and it seems to me like when she picks up a book, it’s as if she’s saying to the author, “Ok, show me what you’ve got. Please don’t disappoint me.” Granted, J.R. was much more involved with literature courses in college than I was. She seriously considered being a literature major, while I limited my courseload in that area to two courses, due to many reasons including dislike of certain professors, unwillingness to devote hours to writing papers about the books, and a simple preference for psychology courses over literature courses, when forced to make a choice. As a result, she’s got more experience than I do in critically analyzing literature at a university level.

Whether or not her preference for masterpieces comes from that background, I have no idea. But in my opinion, it’s the wrong way to go. A book can’t be adequately judged and considered without the reader having read the entire thing. Some books have slower paces than others, but it doesn’t diminish their quality. And some books aren’t written with the finesse of a literature major. Sometimes this is because it’s written colloquially, like “The Color Purple,” by Alice Walker. Other times it’s because the book is a memoir of an ordinary person with an extraordinary life experience, like “The Glass Castle,” by Jeannette Walls. And maybe it’s just because the author isn’t a fantastic writer. But wouldn’t it be boring if every book had the same writing style? I have a feeling that J.R. wouldn’t have liked “The History of Love,” by Nicole Krauss, because it had some unusual typesetting and formatting in it, and a lot of it was narrated by a lonely old man – not an eloquent observer. But to me, that’s part of the charm of the book. I truly love books that are eloquently worded and structured and are masterpieces in themselves, but I think that limiting oneself to those types of books is a bad move, if not just plain boring.

Personally, I’m much more inclined to give every book a chance. I don’t love every book I read, but I appreciate them. I wasn’t a huge fan of “A Thousand Acres,” by Jane Smiley, but I read the whole thing. You wouldn’t walk out of a movie theater halfway through just because the story wasn’t sucking you in or because it wasn’t the best movie you’ve seen, would you? Isn’t that drastic a move reserved for the truly abysmal movies that would be punishment to finish? Obviously, watching a movie involves less time and effort than reading a book, but I’m inclined to put them in the same boat.

I would much rather read a wide variety of books, recommended by different people and of varying degrees of greatness, than just read the ones that earn awards. I like variety in books – a main reason that I couldn’t follow in my mom’s footsteps and stick to mystery stories, which get so boring to me after a while (she’s a bigger bookworm than I am, but she does tend to favor the same prolific authors at all costs). I like trying out new book styles as much as I like trying new kinds of ethnic foods, and though I don’t love all of them (Ethiopian food certainly isn’t my thing), I appreciate the experience. Sometimes I read old books just for the hell of it; for example, I recently read “To Kill a Mockingbird,” by Harper Lee, just because I felt neglected for never having read it in high school, and I just read “Sula,” by Toni Morrison, because I feel like it’s a cultural piece that should be read. But I also seek out brand new books off the presses and have to wait in line to get my hands on them at the library. Sometimes I like stories that press beyond the scientific possibilities that reality offers, like “The Time Traveler’s Wife,” by Audrey Niffenegger, or that take place in faraway lands, like “The Poisonwood Bible,” by Barbara Kingsolver, or that are autobiographies of ordinary contemporaries, like “Shutterbabe,” by Deborah Copaken Kogan, or that follow individuals and families over a lifetime, like “The Namesake,” by Jhumpa Lahiri. I even plan on reading the first Twilight book against my better judgment, because I can’t resist the pull of something that two intelligent friends have sworn by. If I hate it, so be it, but at least I’ll be able to say I tried it.

I may be making huge assumptions about J.R. and what she would or would not read. But I have had enough conversations with her to get the sense that she wouldn’t really give all of these different kinds of books a chance. I only recently discovered Barbara Kingsolver and love her books, and I have a feeling that J.R. would like her narrative style, as well. But I think she’s missing out on so many other stories.

But what do I know?

Sula, by Toni Morrison

I’ve only just started to read “Sula,” by Toni Morrison, but I can already tell that some high school student took this book out from the library for English class. There are markings and underlinings, which actually isn’t unusual in comparison to other books that I’ve read lately, but the difference is that the things that are written amuse me.

Next to “Eva lifted her tongue to the edge of her lip to stop the tears from running into her mouth,” the scribbled blue pen wrote “She cares.”

Next to “Lord, it’s cold. Don’t just sit there, honey. You could be pulling your nose…” is a giant blue question mark. I can picture some 15-year-old kid thinking “What the hell does that mean?”

After a paragraph beginning with “She only heard Hannah’s words, and the pronouncement sent her flying up the stairs…,” someone wrote in that same blue pen, “This is when she realized that she can only rely on herself.”

These phrases were bracketed in blue pen: [“Some kind of baptism, some kind of blessing, he thought. Everything is going to be all right, it said. Knowing that it was so he closed his eyes and sank back into the bright hole of sleep.”] The word “baptism” was underlined and next to it was written, “death – to a new life,” and next to the brackets, someone wrote “EXAM.” This makes me smile.

I certainly don’t miss reading books not for enjoyment, but for the threat of the impending essay, class discussions, and exam. And yet, it was always those things that led me to either love or hate the book. I doubt I would have appreciated, or even finished Dickens' “A Tale of Two Cities” or Bronte's “Wuthering Heights,” without the pressure from school, though the former is now among my all-time favorite books (and I’ve read it on my own now and then just for the hell of it). And yet, I still have an irrational hatred of books like Steinbeck’s “The Red Pony” and “The Pearl,” partly due to their depressing nature but also partly due to the frustration of being forced to process books at the same speed as my 6th grade peers, though I was probably reading at a 12th grade level. At least college literature classes expected me to finish a book and understand it well within a week’s time, whereas middle school classes drew an afternoon’s reading into a whole month affair, complete with quizzes, homework assignments, and full-on tests.

Is this why so many people hate reading?