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| Hearsay: |
What’s the first thing you do when you get into someone’s house? Assuming it’s not pee in the corner and/or that you didn’t come in through the basement window with a dollar sign-decaled sack, I suspect it’s check out the bookshelves. But what happens when you don’t like what you find there? How much can we judge people by what’s on their shelves? Personally, I’ve condemned people to the scrap heap of friendship for even the slightest transgression. Danielle Steel? See ya! Anne Coulter? Sayonara, suckah! Dean Koontz? May your armpits rebel and cover you in a carpet of sweaty hair. Dan Brown? Look out in the field there, Old Yeller. (Okay, you get a hype pass if you have the Da Vinci Code, but if you bought Angels and Demons after, you deserve whatever karmic train accident you get smushed in.)
Judging character from someone’s reading habits is a favourite game in the media. Can we tell something about the deep heart of Gordon Brown from his love of Lewis Grassic Gibbon? Is it revelatory that Tony Blair insists his favourite book is Treasure Island? There was a frenzy among columnists when Dubya revealed that he settled down after a hard day on the ranch to a close study of L’Étranger: the idea of the president indulging in a discussion on the origins of existentialism was met with howls of derision. Biggest laugh of all came when the leader of the free world insisted that his reading list was “eckalectic”.
Most of us aspire to a bit of an eckalectic bookshelf. A central part of the dating ritual is the inspection of book collections. Any self-respecting man might well be put off by an A-Z of self-help manuals; all but the most understanding women would run screaming from rows of science fiction and motoring books. I once had to call on all my reserves of tolerance when a brilliant friend with degrees from Harvard and Oxford and a job as a top political operative brought the newest and fattest Harry Potter novel with him on holiday. There is something disconcerting about grown men reading children’s books. (I also have a lot of trouble with orcs.)
Trouble with orcs? What you need is a elven host. That’ll take care of em.
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April 26th, 2007 at 11:07 am
OH GOODNESS! SOMEONE IS JUST READING FOR GUILTY PLEASURE! BURN THEM! BuuuUUuUURN THEM!
April 26th, 2007 at 11:21 am
If you call what you’re reading a guilty pleasure, then already you’re admitting something is inherently wrong with what’s being read. Dan Brown could be considered a guilty pleasure because the penalty for reading his books should be public flogging.
April 26th, 2007 at 3:14 pm
You just have to be smart about your guilty pleasures. My mass-market follies live in a box under my window seat. The inspectable bookshelves contain (but are not limited to) the lit-fic, the old texts from Uni, and the patented “Shelf O’ Feminism.” Which is a better representation of who I am than my secret hoard of Jackie Collins’ novels anyway.
April 26th, 2007 at 6:13 pm
The concept of guiltey pleasure makes no sense to me. I don’t feel guilty about liking something. But more to the point, I can’t fathom the concept that crappy work is pleasurable.
I have a friend who really loves crappy movies. Not campy B movies, but like Charlies Angels or I, Robot or stuff like that. When we talk about movies he will always try to make some argument like “what is wrong with just having a fun movie?” As if watching bad acting, cliche dialogue and boring directing is fun. I don’t know about anyone else, but shitty work is a PAIN to view or read or listen to.
A Dan Brown novel isn’t an exciting fun read, it is a painful unpleasent reading experience.
Don’t people realize that it is possible to watch a well-made mindless action movie if that is what you want to do? Don’t people realize that well-written thrillers exist?
The choice isn’t merely between “exciting and fun” Michael Bay films and “boring, incomprehensible” David Lynch films. You can go watch Miller’s Crossing or Pulp Fiction or a thousand other exciting and fun yet well made films.
April 27th, 2007 at 10:30 pm
Feh. This type of book snobbery was something I agonized about as an undergraduate. For example, I wouldn’t date any guy who liked Hemingway. But in the grown up world? I’m just happy to come across people who READ.