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?

And it begins

Would I be a complete nerd if I decided to blog about books? I've been reading a lot, and I find myself telling people about the books I read in emails. Maybe it would be better to do that here so that I don't completely irritate the people that I correspond with. The idea of writing about someone else's writing seems strange, but it's not plot summaries that I'm interested in, but rather my reactions to the stories. Obviously my reactions are original, so maybe the idea isn't that strange after all.

As I've said, after a long hiatus, I am finally back on a book rampage, eagerly snapping up books at the library and ripping through them. I love being glued to a story, love passing time with characters and getting to know them as well as the authors do. I respect the way that authors can weave such intricacies. The ability has always confounded me. I mean, I write well enough. Ask me to write a chapter about something, and I could do it. I'm good at grammar and sentence structure, though my expertise is in academic writing, not the kind of writing that people actually enjoy reading. But having the imagination and foresight and intelligence to have all the details that are in a novel all worked out in my head, to understand the start and end of a story and how I want to get from here and there, I just don't know how they do it. It's something I've always wanted to do. I've made two attempts. The first was in 4th grade, and was more of an experiment than anything else. The story was about three girls who found a kitten that had been poisoned, and embarked on a quest to figure out who did it, and why (don't worry, the kitten recovered). The second one was in 9th grade, and the main character was a thinly disguised, though also much better, version of me, which makes for a horribly unimaginative and embarrassingly stupid story. I wrote a number of chapters secretively in a spiral notebook that I kept hidden from everyone as if it was a diary, but eventually put it aside. I will make a legitimate attempt to create a memorable work of fiction at some point in my life. In the meantime, I will continue to READ READ READ! My nights and weekends are no longer devoted to school or thesis work, and so I can actually read for fun without guilt. I'm finally allowed to indulge, and though it baffles my boyfriend that I would much rather read a book than watch TV, I think he really respects (and is amused by) how excited I get when I come home from the library with new, unread books. Actually, it reminds me of the days when I used to go to the library with my mom and come home with armloads of Babysitter's Club or Nancy Drew Casefiles or whatever books I was into. In 9th grade, my English teacher prohibited me - yes, PROHIBITED me - from reading any more of Sue Grafton's alphabet series. You know, "A is for Alibi," "B is for Burglar," etc... I'd recently discovered the mystery series, and couldn't stop myself from reading 2-3 of them every week, despite my courseload. My teacher told me they were too easy and told me I wasn't allowed to read them anymore. So I read them in addition to other books, only I stopped recording the Grafton series on my "Books read" list. Ridiculous. All the other kids got pats on the back if they finished a "young adult" book over the course of an entire month, while I was expected to stick to things that I couldn't finish in a week. It infuriated me. My point is, I've always been a reader.

I recently read "The Namesake" by Jhumpa Lahiri. It was actually an accident that I ended up with it; someone had recommended another book by the same author, but "The Namesake" was all my library had by her at the moment. I've read several books involving Middle-Eastern culture, like The Kite Runner and A Thousand Splendid Suns, so I was a little hesitant about it at first (not because they weren't great books, because they were, but I didn't want to be in a rut), but it was really good. It followed the life of a young boy whose parents moved to New England from India, and a lot of the issues that he dealt with were actually very familiar to me, whether from my own experiences of teenage awkwardness or needing to get away from home, or because of my experiences with F.H., a friend from my hometown whose parents were Sri Lankan. Like F.H., the boys parents insisted on yearly pilgrammages to the homeland, and had big elaborate dinner parties, and were really traditional, and didn't celebrate Christmas, etc. It really made me think about her. She moved away in 10th grade (her parents decided to return to Sri Lanka), and it took me a long, long time to get over it. I still miss her though. But I digress.

I also recently read a book called "Prodigal Summer" by Barbara Kingsolver. Again, I had intended to get a different book by the author because of a recommendation -- "the Poisonwood Bible" -- and only ended up with this one because my library didn't have what I wanted. And I was reluctant about the book at first because its description seemed cheesy and lame, but I couldn't resist plucking it off the shelves and giving it a good shot. Halfway through the book, I was really drawn in. As it's told, the book is three separate stories about three separate people, and I was completely absorbed by the characterization, as well as figuring out how and when all three lives would intersect.

I've recently made a friend at my new job, and she also loves to read, but by her own admission, she loves the trashy chick lit that you don't have to think about. She also loves the Twilight series, which I've heard is about vampires. She was telling me about it the other day, and offered to bring the first book in for me, and I really only agreed to be polite. Thinking about it further, though, I am willing to give at least the first installment a shot. She's not the only person who's recommended the series to me. A close friend from grad school, one who is obsessed with classic British authors like Jane Austen, recently read them to placate someone who insisted she give them a try, and she ended up purchasing the entire series and reading them all within a matter of days. So maybe I will give them a try. And anyway, I can't tell you how many vampire stories I devoured from the young adult section of the public library in my hometown. You think I'm a reader now? Imagine a geeky, shy, self-conscious, and awkward version of myself bringing home armloads of paperbacks every week. If Babysitters Club and Nancy Drew were my childhood, vampire stories and ghost stories were my adolescence.

Yesterday at work, I finished up a book that the librarian at my former university recommended to me: "The History of Love" by Nicole Krauss. It was a wonderful book and I can see why she loved it. It was one of those books where there are a million separate storylines and you think "How in the world are these related?" But somehow the author tied them all together and now I understand why everyone says it's a great story. Still, there's the nagging feeling that I read it too quickly and skipped over some details. That is, I understand how the stories came together in the end, but it's a little fuzzy and I suspect that I might understand it better if I read it again. So when I dropped off a few other books at the library on my way home from work yesterday afternoon, I kept "The History of Love" with me, with the thought that I might read it again. But I have two other new books calling my name, and I can't resist that any more than I can resist starting a new sudoku puzzle, so they will certainly come first. Maybe I'll come back to this novel, or maybe I'll end up rushing back to the library to get more. We shall see.

Next up: The Poisonwood Bible, by Barbara Kingsolver. It's been recommended by the aforementioned librarian, as well as some of my more well-read college friends, and it's by the same author as Prodigal Summer, so I'm expecting good things.