I don't judge books by their covers. I judge you.
I may not be a hipster in many aspects of my life, but my vehemence about what constitutes "good" literature definitely has a indier-than-thou aspect to it. I haven't read The Hunger Games — how good could a novel that popular be? I scoff at Nicholas Sparks, because The Notebook was a dribbling piece of romantic hogwash, not a cinematic piece of art. And the very idea of Chelsea Handler bores me. No, I haven't read her book, but I've see YouTube clips, and she's about as entertaining as Kathy Griffin.
But I'm not sure I like my book-bound snobbishness. It's a cultural barrier. Yeah, I get along great with fantasy geeks with a taste for Tolkien and Bradbury. But I feel distanced from the modern reader. My belief that an Oprah Book Club seal of approval diminishes the value of the work is exceedingly arrogant. In no other area of my life do I feel superior to millions of people.
Still, I don't want to let go of my standards. Justifying popular reading habits would be a slap in the face of literary artisans everywhere. Stephanie Meyer's blood should be demanded for the death of the vampire. House of Leaves should replace John Grisham on every required reading list. Chuck Palahniuk and Neil Gaiman should write more, and bell hooks should be a bedside adornment.
My mental great debate rages on. In the name of social interaction, what would be better? To entomb myself in Plath until Sapphire writes again? Or to give Jodi Picoult a cursory chance?
No comments:
Post a Comment