good books or good readers?
Some books are so unpleasant that one does not feel much inclined to spend large amounts of time with it, especially in one sitting. I’m reading such a book. Ben keeps asking me why I put up with it. I used to be obstinate with books. I would read a book I had started until the very end, no matter how much it annoyed me, or put me to sleep, or made me depressed. Then I met a guy who changed all that. I do not remember his name and surely wouldn’t recognize him if I were to see him in the street. We studied together, and during my first semester at l’UQAM in Literary Studies I would often go out for coffee with a group of classmates, of which he was part. One day we were talking about the reading of boring books and he said that if he doesn’t like a book, he just leaves it to its own like a meal one doesn’t appreciate and doesn’t force oneself to eat. And just like that, I was converted. You bore me: I leave you on the night table. Your writing seems unrefined: I laugh at you. You loose my interest: I discard you in a corner where you soon find the company of balls of dust and cat hair.
Of course, this contradicts my idea that it isn’t most books that are bad, but most readers that are. To be a good reader, one must be able to acquire a book, to tame it. The good reader must be a chameleon and be able to change herself to accommodate the world in which she immerses herself. She must adapt herself. She must learn to surf the writing and the story at hand. She mustn’t be lazy. There is no reward for the lazy reader; she will invariably end up picking up the same book over and over again, with, of course, a different title and a few changed narrative elements such as the setting and the name of the characters. Surely, it is nothing but ill will to put all the blame on the novel.
To accommodate my seemingly opposing views, I shall hypothesize that the rapport between the reader and the novel (or any other type of book or writing) is a relationship in its own right, as any other relationship between two people. Just as we are not always inclined, on a specific day and depending on our attitude at the time, to see a specific person, so it is with books. Also, as we sometimes meet a person on one occasion and are not particularly impressed by her, we can meet that same person on another occasion and find her interesting, or amusing, or she may even qualify as a potential friend, it is likewise for the books we pick up. To turn a relationship into something valuable from which we learn and grow, one must be prepared to invest one’s time, to keep an open mind, and to remain as understanding as possible (of course, there needs be a minimum of mutual affection). This is true for the people we meet as well as the books we read. And just as not all people are destined to be our friends, or even to affect us in the remotest of ways, some books can easily remain on our bookshelf unread, or may be discarded, or may never be bought at all. It would be utopist to believe that all relationships are worth our time, or to hope that they will all be rewarding. So energy must be given where in turn it might be found; and such investments might change over time depending on how one might change oneself.
As for the book I am presently reading, I have remained faithful to it for two main reasons: 1) I know that if I were to pick up another book to be read simultaneously, I would eventually neglect this one entirely before having finished it; 2) it is not so much a relationship with the book that I seek than one with its author. Indeed, one aspect of doing an MA that I greatly appreciated was being able to read the entire published work of two authors. This was made particularly clear to me while going through the oeuvre of Djuna Barnes, who covered different media and genres over three decades. I liked getting to know an author in such a way. It gave me the impression that I was following her through time, watching out for her evolution. I enjoyed noticing how her style changed and how parts of it remained the same over years of writing. It was fascinating. It was so fascinating that I have decided to do the same with Virginia Woolf, which now has me reading her first work of fiction: The Voyage Out .
This book is about a young cloistered British girl (she’s 24) who travels to the Argentines and is left in the care of her aunt, a woman who I suspect was written to a certain extent as a portrait of the author, who wishes to “bring her out.” In other words, she wishes to make a reasonable person of her. Rachel, the young girl, therefore discovers the world through the people who inhabit Santa Marina’s hotel, a flock of British travelers meant to portray the different levels of British society (not to say caste); it serves as a microcosm where our protagonist can meet, mingle, and make her mind up about these various people. It is long-winded and extremely daunting. I used to read prefaces and introductions though they bored me; now I read them though they tell me how the novel ends. The book’s Introduction states that this novel expresses Woolf’s “coming out” as a novelist. It is where she first worked out her style. Unfortunately, this is all too true: the novel reads like a long practice piece of social study and commentary that comes off much more precisely, and with much more wit and cleverness, in her subsequent novels. To top it off, her heroine dies at the end. I have no inherent problems with the death of the main character at the end of a story. I usually deplore the run-of-the-mill happy ending. The problem with this one is that it feels like Woolf had Rachel die simply to contradict the happy ending, and without being able to find a more original way to disrupt reader expectations she simply gave her a tropical illness that finishes her off. It seems so obvious and, hence, pointless. These are the workings of what I call an immature narrative.
I put up with this novel because I want to come to know its author. I’ve already read several of Woolf’s novels, but I wish to re-read them, to re-discover them, and to see where her style changes and where it stays the same. I want to watch her improve has she grows older and wiser, as her admiration for writing such as Joyce’s expands, and as she allows herself to make books rather than babies.
The next book on my list is Cohen’s Belle du seigneur, a classic French love-story. I am hoping its magic will blend well with Christmas, while keeping myself in check not to hope too much of it lest I cannot mold myself into a good enough reader for it, and end up disappointed.
Of course, this contradicts my idea that it isn’t most books that are bad, but most readers that are. To be a good reader, one must be able to acquire a book, to tame it. The good reader must be a chameleon and be able to change herself to accommodate the world in which she immerses herself. She must adapt herself. She must learn to surf the writing and the story at hand. She mustn’t be lazy. There is no reward for the lazy reader; she will invariably end up picking up the same book over and over again, with, of course, a different title and a few changed narrative elements such as the setting and the name of the characters. Surely, it is nothing but ill will to put all the blame on the novel.
To accommodate my seemingly opposing views, I shall hypothesize that the rapport between the reader and the novel (or any other type of book or writing) is a relationship in its own right, as any other relationship between two people. Just as we are not always inclined, on a specific day and depending on our attitude at the time, to see a specific person, so it is with books. Also, as we sometimes meet a person on one occasion and are not particularly impressed by her, we can meet that same person on another occasion and find her interesting, or amusing, or she may even qualify as a potential friend, it is likewise for the books we pick up. To turn a relationship into something valuable from which we learn and grow, one must be prepared to invest one’s time, to keep an open mind, and to remain as understanding as possible (of course, there needs be a minimum of mutual affection). This is true for the people we meet as well as the books we read. And just as not all people are destined to be our friends, or even to affect us in the remotest of ways, some books can easily remain on our bookshelf unread, or may be discarded, or may never be bought at all. It would be utopist to believe that all relationships are worth our time, or to hope that they will all be rewarding. So energy must be given where in turn it might be found; and such investments might change over time depending on how one might change oneself.
As for the book I am presently reading, I have remained faithful to it for two main reasons: 1) I know that if I were to pick up another book to be read simultaneously, I would eventually neglect this one entirely before having finished it; 2) it is not so much a relationship with the book that I seek than one with its author. Indeed, one aspect of doing an MA that I greatly appreciated was being able to read the entire published work of two authors. This was made particularly clear to me while going through the oeuvre of Djuna Barnes, who covered different media and genres over three decades. I liked getting to know an author in such a way. It gave me the impression that I was following her through time, watching out for her evolution. I enjoyed noticing how her style changed and how parts of it remained the same over years of writing. It was fascinating. It was so fascinating that I have decided to do the same with Virginia Woolf, which now has me reading her first work of fiction: The Voyage Out .
This book is about a young cloistered British girl (she’s 24) who travels to the Argentines and is left in the care of her aunt, a woman who I suspect was written to a certain extent as a portrait of the author, who wishes to “bring her out.” In other words, she wishes to make a reasonable person of her. Rachel, the young girl, therefore discovers the world through the people who inhabit Santa Marina’s hotel, a flock of British travelers meant to portray the different levels of British society (not to say caste); it serves as a microcosm where our protagonist can meet, mingle, and make her mind up about these various people. It is long-winded and extremely daunting. I used to read prefaces and introductions though they bored me; now I read them though they tell me how the novel ends. The book’s Introduction states that this novel expresses Woolf’s “coming out” as a novelist. It is where she first worked out her style. Unfortunately, this is all too true: the novel reads like a long practice piece of social study and commentary that comes off much more precisely, and with much more wit and cleverness, in her subsequent novels. To top it off, her heroine dies at the end. I have no inherent problems with the death of the main character at the end of a story. I usually deplore the run-of-the-mill happy ending. The problem with this one is that it feels like Woolf had Rachel die simply to contradict the happy ending, and without being able to find a more original way to disrupt reader expectations she simply gave her a tropical illness that finishes her off. It seems so obvious and, hence, pointless. These are the workings of what I call an immature narrative.
I put up with this novel because I want to come to know its author. I’ve already read several of Woolf’s novels, but I wish to re-read them, to re-discover them, and to see where her style changes and where it stays the same. I want to watch her improve has she grows older and wiser, as her admiration for writing such as Joyce’s expands, and as she allows herself to make books rather than babies.
The next book on my list is Cohen’s Belle du seigneur, a classic French love-story. I am hoping its magic will blend well with Christmas, while keeping myself in check not to hope too much of it lest I cannot mold myself into a good enough reader for it, and end up disappointed.
posted by julie at
5:27 p.m.
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