This past Ash Wednesday, I did a penance of sorts in the form of an eight-hour phone conversation with, well, let’s just call him “Mr. Character” and leave it at that.
We’re both Geminis, so keeping the conversation rolling for all those hours wasn’t much of a stretch. Since we’re also both creative types (me, writer; he, musician) talking about the arts took up a fair portion of those 480 minutes. He did throw me a curveball, though, when he asked what I’d choose as “The Great American Novel.” I tried to deflect the question by opining for a few minutes about how I didn’t believe in that particular designation, but Mr. C. is a stubborn man and he kept pressing me for an answer, which I reluctantly gave him.
It’s not that I’m afraid to give an opinion. On the contrary, and usually whether you want to hear it or not. But recommending anything – a movie, a restaurant, a TV show – is a minefield and never more so then giving the thumbs up on a book. I’ve learned this from hard experience because I’m usually the one trawling for a recommendation and have invariably been disappointed. It makes me wonder whether the person who gave me the title knows my taste at all or, worse, if they have any taste themselves. Unlike a movie, TV show or meal, reading a book is a major investment of time, patience and imagination, and one I expect a spectacular return on. Besides, I don’t like to think badly of my family and friend’s aesthetic palate and I don’t want them thinking badly of mine.
One of the most egregious recommendations came my way from my niece and sister who gushed over Wally Lamb’s “I Know This Much is True.”
I’ll tell you what I know is true: When the “Oprah Book Club” seal of approval appears on the cover of a book, it’s the literary kiss of death, at least as far as myself and Jonathan Franzen are concerned. In the dedication, the author himself refers to the bloated, 928-page novel as “a shaggy dog story,” but this mutt is flea-ridden, cross-eyed and lumbering around on three legs. Full of endless repetition, useless digressions and way too much back story, I thought his editor ran out of red ink and then decided only a well-honed machete would do the job. “Lamb’s (book) to the slaughter” indeed.
I’ve also been shamefully seduced by the siren song of the “buzz” book. Case in point: “The Da Vinci Code,” which was nothing more than a screenplay with the technical direction removed. I have to applaud Dan Brown, though, for turning a slight whodunit into two bodacious cash cows – bestseller and box-office smash – proving once again you’ll never go broke underestimating the intelligence of the average audience. Rule of thumb: If you’re at the beach and notice that practically every sunburned patron is squinting through the same paperback, cross it off your list.
You’d think I would have learned my lesson by now, but I’m finishing up yet another recommended tome, this one called “This is Where I Leave You” by Jonathan Tropper. I was told it was “hilarious” and, to give the author his due, there are a few guffaw-inducing lines, but the story is numbingly rote: Protagonist loses wife, job, self-esteem and father in quick succession and is forced to sit shiva for seven days with his (you guessed it) hugely-dysfunctional family. No surprise, then, when I turned to the back flap to read about the author and discovered he’s currently adapting the book to the screen. Dan Brown has a lot to answer for.
And now I'm going to break my own rule:
If you’re wondering about my answer to Mr. Character’s query, it's “Gilead” by Marilynne Robinson.
Go. Read. Then give me hell for it.
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