• Does anyone else feel like Motoko Rich just writes essentially the same article over and over again?  (Cue the “Don’t you just write the same post over and over again?” comments.)  Each piece is basically a variation on this:  “For years people read this way, but that is changing. Thanks to technology they are reading – gasp – a different way.  Some argue that this is the end of the world.  Others say it’s no big deal and really isn’t that different.  But don’t worry, most people are still reading the old way.” Don’t believe me?  Consider this piece on social reading and this post about reading a book on a cellphone.  Also, the social reading piece has more than a hint of classist sneer to it, I think, with book club members portrayed as Chardonnay-sipping Oprah fanatics (some are, no doubt) while those who prefer reading in solitude are, well, Virginia Woolf.   These types of articles always end with a reaffirmation of the status-quo:  “That doesn’t stop Mr. Bucher from having a deeply intimate relationship with books. “I still read the book at home at night by myself with one lamp,” he said. “The next day it does enhance my experience to talk about it.””  And:  “But Mr. Bryant acknowledged that the iPhone, while convenient, did not serve every reading purpose.  “I’ve got a 3-year-old at home, and he really digs books,” Mr. Bryant said. “I remembering pilfering my parents’ shelves, and if everything is on the iPhone, he’s just not going to have that visual temptation. So we keep the shelves loaded.””  I don’t know, maybe I’m wrong.

• Worth reading:  At HTML Giant, Blake Butler uses the most recent issue of Fence — in particular the editor’s note by Rebecca Wolff — to decry the “smallness” of most literary magazines:  “So many magazines and publishers fail financially because first they fail to enthrall, because their contents are bound in breadth enough that they are forced to compete for attention by things like movies, and often wheel around the elements that make text capable of approaching, creating space untouchable by another medium.”

• And lastly, in a bit of shameless self-promotion, I have an essay at The Millions about The Real World and the rise (and fall?) of reality television:  “Season two of The Real World is, arguably, the single most important season of any TV show of the last twenty years.  It is one of those watershed moments that happens once or twice a generation.”  Also of note:  Choire disagrees.

It isn’t uncommon for a book’s length to scare people off, and I’m not surprised to see Adiga mention an aversion to the “classics.”  The term conjures images of mahogany-paneled libraries and leatherbound copies of Thomas Hardy books.  It also, unfortunately, can carry echoes of boredom, of difficulty, or, worst of all, of a book that is “good for you,” something you’re supposed to have read.  There aren’t that many universal truths with regards to reading, but one of them is that reading and obligation aren’t a happy couple.

Genre can also scare off many a reader.  How many people have picked up a book  that looked interesting, only to put it down again after realizing it was fantasy or sci-fi or a thriller?  I find myself drawn to certain subjects and certain styles, and I frequently have to remind myself that there are great books in many different sections of the store.  I’m scared off by long books and old books.  So scared, in fact, that I decided to take on some of my fears in 2010 by reading at least two books published before 1900.  People were good enough to give me some recommendations (including a couple of readers who noted Moby-Dick‘s surprising humor).

When it comes to choosing a book, what’s a red flag issue for you?  What makes you put a book back on the shelf?  Is it something in the jacket copy or something about the cover?  I’m curious.

I can’t stop thinking about this (which is usually how long rambling blog posts that don’t successfully argue something start).  The thing is, you see, I want to read about doing the dishes, and, with a few exceptions, almost all of the books I enjoy are what you could call some variant of realist.  They lack any sort of fantastic or supernatural element.  Sometimes they take place in an earlier time or a foreign country.  I read and greatly enjoyed City of Thieves, which took place during the siege of Leningrad and lacked dishwashing of any sort.  I read Cryptonomicon, which partially takes place during World War II, and thought it was an interesting book, if ultimately overwritten and repetitive.  And Stoner is probably the best novel I’ve read this year, and it takes place from (roughly) 1910-1955.  But looking back on my reading of the past year, a certain sameness is apparent:  I read a lot of books that take place in the present (relatively speaking) and a lot of books about people in similar circumstances to me.

I’m apparently a woefully parochial reader.  In this respect, I think I’m probably a typical American (though I read more female authors than most male Americans, so…ta).  When the Nobel Prize was awarded to Romanian author Herta Müller, the general reaction in America was “Who?”  According to The Millions, “[O]nly a handful [of her books] are anywhere close to being in print ,” so that’s maybe not entirely our fault, though it cannot be denied that Americans don’t read enough foreign authors.  But at another level, Müller has something else going against her.  She writes what seem like political novels to me, and in the end, I’m not all that interested in reading something with an overt political message.  Maybe if it’s encased in a very funny or very sad story, but I can’t see myself reading something that feels like it has an overt agenda in play.  Maybe I’m wrong about her work (I’m certainly coming from a place of ignorance).  I also tend to avoid “the novel of ideas,” whatever that might be.  Philosophical novels have never been much of a pleasure for me, so I try to avoid them.  Yet I know others who love them.  And that’s sort of what I’m interested in with this post.

I must, at some level, want to see myself in the books I read.  But maybe that’s not it.  Maybe I’m actually kind of interested in day to day life.  Those things that most people would say are “boring,” or whatever.  Raking leaves, washing dishes, picking up Thai food.  So a book set deep within the domestic world — a world of marriages and work and crappy weekends that go by too fast — has real appeal to me.  A book like Then We Came to the End or William H. Gass’ In the Heart of the Heart of the Country.  Gass’ book, maybe more than any other I’ve read, manages to dig out the beauty of the humdrum life most of lead, and it’s that beauty, that transcendence, that whatever that can bring me to tears.  In many ways, Stoner does this, too, and in a more overt way.  Stoner is a book concerned with a man’s life — his marriage, his friendships, his affairs and his work (primarily, I think, his work).  It’s the best thing I’ve read all year.

But not everyone wants to read about these things.  I’m long past being shocked when my taste isn’t shared by others, but when someone has an entirely different reason for reading?  That still surprises me.  I can understand the desire to escape or to be transported.  I think I probably indulge in a bit of that with my online reading habits.  I think it’s also the appeal of narrative gaming, and maybe of sports, too.  But I’ve never considered that my reason for reading.  It isn’t what I look for in a book, and it can be a deterrent (if the book sounds at all magical, I’m not likely to read it).  Please don’t confuse this with a rant against genre or with some sort of literary snobbishness (I’m probably guilty of that anyway, but not in this case).  I don’t think the books I read are better than any other kind of book (or, I do, but I suspect it’s all about preference in the end).

I suppose this is no different from people who enjoy romance or a sub-genre of romance, or political thrillers, or gigantic books with difficult prose, etc.  We all have our literary predilections, but something about this divide (those who want to read about their own lives, or something like it, vs those who want something they’ll never experience) feels fundamental to me.  Which side are you on?  Is it ridiculous to see a divide here?  How do you choose what your next book will be and how much do you make your decision based on the subject matter of the book?

I’m interesting in this partially because, well, I’m the curious sort, but also because much is made about the ability to loan, re-sell and giveaway ebooks.  I guess I’m just wondering how prevalent each of these activities is when it comes to printed books.

Anyway, I shall return soon with a podcast interview with Emily St. John Mandel, as well as more wonderful stuff.  Until then, feedback would be appreciated.

Obviously, this is just some guy’s list, but it does reinforce a prejudice that exists in American literary culture today.  The writer Maureen Johnson sums it up nicely, I think:  “Once again, men write “important books,” and women write . . . books for LADIES, perhaps? Or, no. Now I remember. Chick lit and fluff.” Just a few days ago, my wife noted that while reading is considered a feminine activity (she was pointing out that we know lots of women who read, but not a lot of men), yet writing — serious writing — remains the domain of men.  This shouldn’t be the case.

When people talk about the “Great American Novel” (a subject that I’d be happy relegating to the dustbin of conversational history), the names that get thrown around are almost always men, first and foremost.  And, well, that should stop.  Read some women, guys (I think most women read both genders, though not always).  Otherwise, you’re missing out on a complete life.