Last week, I posted my list of favorite books of the last ten years. On Facebook, where this blog is syndicated, one reader commented that she hadn’t heard of the books on my list (other than The Corrections) but that she couldn’t understand why someone would want to read a book that reflected their own life experiences. She said (and I’m paraphrasing all of this) that she read to be transported to another place or time, to escape from the banality of life. Who would want to read about doing the dishes?
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?