Counterbalance

Ruined by Revolutionary Road

I'd put off reading Revolutionary Road by Richard Yates for years and years and years.  Now that I've finished the book, I see that waiting was a good thing. A very good thing. So good, in fact, that I wish I'd waited even longer.

Why? The book was so good, I can't quite seem to enjoy anything that has come after it. I've tried. I've picked up novel after novel, collection after collection. Nothing is Revolutionary Road. Nothing is that perfect blend of disdain (bordering on disgust for one's characters, which is fascinating when pulled off and I'll have so much more to say on that later, but all of it has been said I'm sure, as I'm so late to the dance on this one and I don't want to be the girl that discovers this obviously great novel years after all the important people have already deemed it uber-great and I'm just showing my truly unstudied colors by talking about it in such excited tones well after such a thing was acceptable) and office minutiae and dashed dreams and lives stuck in perpetual suburbia even when they fancy themselves better than all that. It was a delicious read - funny and ouchy and deep and dark and then funny again.  Nothing I've picked up since has that kind of meat on its bones.  I'm not sure what I'll do.

All this comparison to a recently read book that I loved begs the question: what book had this effect on you? What book colored all else that came after it...even if only for awhile?

The One That Got Away

While there are many, many things that get away from us (and to share here would be sharing too much), I've been thinking a lot about that one book - or two or three or twenty - that you feel compelled to read, that is the classic, or the difficult, or the overwhelmingly suggested, but that you've not yet read.

There are many classics I've not yet read - many that seem, by all accounts, critical to my worth as a writer. As I sit here among stacks of new books (and stacks and stacks), I find I'm ever-editing a growing shopping cart of books at Powell's: the great unread books from years past.

At the top of my list today? Revolutionary Road by Richard Yates. I know the vague outlines, I know the plot points and key quotes. I am now painfully aware of the upcoming film (that, I just learned, may star Leonardo DiCaprio) and feel it is ever-more-urgent to read it now, now, now before the film wrecks it all.

We all have those books - the ones we know are somehow critical to our understanding of all the literature that has come after them, the ones that are referenced time and time again by contemporary writers that we adore and yet can't quite fully enjoy because we miss these references out of our own laziness.

And so - I renew my vow to read more of these self-deemed must-reads. I strengthen my resolve to let less get away from me in my quest to read the newest first novel from the newest of new writers.

What's gotten away from you?

Whither the List That Matters?

I've never been a fan of year-end lists. I've made this known.  It has come time to say it out loud: I'm uber-tired of it this year.

Why? Short of The Millions and EWN and a tiny handful of blogs and pubs, who have the sense to run "lists" of books that authors (the keyword in all of this as I make my case: authors) liked this year (and which therefore results in interesting lists, lists that consist of something other than the top three or four or seven books that are now so ubiquitous I feel I should refuse to read them on spec or at least out of some unresolved issue I have with authority and being told what to do and what to read), it seems that everyone is cheating off of everyone else. There's only one best-books-of-the-year crib sheet and everyone's got it. Everyone's looking over the same damn shoulder when the teacher's got her back turned.

With the many weekend articles decrying book reviewing (again!) and the lack of reader interest in those book reviews (again!) and how dismal a year it was for books (again!), I feel like screaming: is it any wonder when you all pick the same books and tell the would-be readers you seem so intent on keeping to read them, read them, read them, or else!?!?!!?

Where are the works in translation? Where are the books by small presses? Where are the books by first time authors? Where are the short story collections? You cannot whine about the state of affairs if you're all asleep at the helm. You simply cannot.

A List I Can Get Behind

Another list. Another round of should reading. Another pile to add to the pile to add to the pile. New York Magazine gives us sixty-one underrated titles in their "The Best Novels You've Never Read" piece.  Usually these things fall flat for me. Make me roll my eyes as I gear up to say something inane like "duh, this has been done before and better" or sigh under the pressure of all these books I've not read weighing down upon me. Instead, this list feels fresh. It's long - especially when I frequently say a list of 25 is long. It doesn't focus on writers, but on specific novels, which provides some room to rally. Freshens them up. Makes it seem somewhat manageable. Not everything an author has written, just this one book.

The main reason this list has street cred for me: Benjamin Kunkel's mention of Norman Rush's Mortals. Which, I 100% agree, is overlooked. Under-discussed. Under-appreciated. All of that and more.  I also agree with Kunkel that Mating is even better. I've always marveled at Rush and his seeming lack of appeal among the reading audience. Why don't more people talk about these books? With all they have to say about setting up new civilizations and all the problems inherent within such grand plans? Is he not prolific enough? Not a media darling? I've never been able to figure it. These two books are dense, intense, grand in scope, yet minute in detail. Superb writing, wonderful characterization - you get the big sweeping themes but the intimate details of personal insight are perfectly rendered as well.  Few books have blown me away in quite the fashion that Rush's books have and I'm glad to see he warranted a nod.  His short story collection, Whites, is also excellent. 

Other picks I was delighted to see & whole-heartedly vouch for: By The Lake by John McGahern, The Debt to Pleasure by John Lanchester, Do Everything In the Dark by Gary Indiana, anything by David Markson and of course, my true love, Last Night by James Salter.

Picks that I will simply HAVE to add immediately: Winner of the National Book Award by Jincy Willett, Grief by Andrew Holleran, Experience by Martin Amis, Mariette in Ecstasy by Ron Hansen, Samedi The Deafness by Jesse Ball, Stranger Things Happen by Kelly Link, What Salmon Know by Elwood Reid, The Amalgamation Polka by Stephen Wright and of course, The Last Novel by David Markson.

Down & Dirty Poetry Appreciation (Or, please let's not get precious)

As I sit here reviewing the poets that I return to again and again (when I remember that poetry exists at all), I'm struck by something that I failed to make very clear, very plain from the outset: I don't know what the hell I'm talking about. Not really. Not in the academic sense. When I boldly declared a "let's all appreciate poetry" week late on Sunday night, I had no grand visions of poetry analysis, of discussing the merits of various forms and their place in the shifting landscape of poetry through the centuries, of comparing the differences in structure between poets & their relevance in the artistic world.  I only meant to say - hey - the beauty of a well crafted phrase, of a carefully chosen word, can inspire those of us who write longer works and so what of it.

Instead, I'm afraid (and I believe you are as well) it might appear as if I've invited you all to provide some sort of academic treatise on poetry. There seems to be, among most of the writers I've spoken to in the last 24 hours, a real hesitancy to comment on anything related to poetry because there is an inherent "academia" angle that none of us wants to touch with an 80 foot pole. We aren't poetry scholars after all and so what could we possibly contribute that would add value? Shed light?

But that is exactly my point.

For me, poetry has always had the stink of PhD analysis and academic importance. Weight. Heft. All those things that a fiction writer might not bother with once they are out of the academic life.  It was only when I started to see poetry as something that was less scholarly -- and more accessible -- that I began to appreciate it. I suspect this is true for many of us, which is why we twitch and twitter at the thought of discussing poetry. For the most part, we read books. We discuss them at length because we feel comfortable doing so. We can talk about narrative threads and leitmotifs and all those things that make a novel a novel because we have more practice reading them and writing them. With poetry...eh...not so much. We are out of practice, our poetry instruments rarely, if ever, tuned.

So, with that, I will say this: let's get down and dirty about it. Let's toss the snobbery and snootery out altogether. Let's just be frank. Whose poetry do you read and why? What do they do for you that you can't get from another writer? If you don't read poetry, why? Throughout the course of this week, I will likely mention poets you've never heard of that have never won a thing and won't be found in any canon. You may dislike everything they've ever written. You will likely highlight poets that I've never heard of and realize I want to learn more about...or not.  Someone may decide to chuck poetry altogether after a few quick glances at the poems posted. You may point out that poetry to you is the third verse of a Radiohead song, the opening line of a Dylan anthem, the words written on a notecard from a friend, a quote you keep toting around year after year. That is what it's all about. Taking the precious out of the poetry.  Can we do that? Am I crazy?

1001 Book Bollocks

The list has been discussed at length. The reasons why the entire catalog of one author is listed while seemingly obvious picks have been left off altogether.  The validity of the choices, the unfairness of the selections. It's been covered everywhere. I don't need to do that here.  And if this is untimely (because the really important blogs already discussed this days ago), I use Tahiti as my shield, my I'm so sorry I'm behind a few weeks excuse.

But. Having said that. I feel it would be remiss to not at least point out the obvious. Or at least, obvious to me.

Sweet Jesus.  Yes. Jesus. After perusing the list and dutifully tallying up those books I've read (a meager 234), I found myself not marveling at what I've read, but what I've not read. How can it be that I've simply not gotten to so many basic, you must read this or else books? What have I been doing with my time?  Well, reading. And writing. More so than the average bear I'm guessing. And yet, 767 books to go. 

After a brief panic and a mild what- is-it-all-for flailing about, I accepted this lot.  Fine. Fine. So I've not read all I should have read (I hate should reading!) So I'm not the brilliant, well-read Miss Counterbalance I perceived myself to be.  Not to worry.  Because, you see, I can read these books now.  They are still available.  They are mine for the taking.  The reading.

Once again calm, once again methodical with my spreadsheet, I set about making a plan. Where to start? What to read first? 2000s? Or move it all the way back to the 1700s?  And then, just for kicks, I caught myself wondering how long it would take to read all of these books while, of course, including all the new books that will come out along the way.  And, of course, the main reason I'm here at all, the writing.   Fine. Good. So let's factor that in. Let's add it up. Let's make a plan.

Yes. Let's add that up indeed. If I read only one of the 767 remaining books a week, just one, it would take me 15 years to complete my calm, rational little plan.

15 years.

And so, I bid adieu to the 1001 Books that you must read before you die until you realize you won't live long enough to read them all list.  I say adios to the notion of lists at all.  I hate Should reading and I hate List reading.  I'll read what I want, when I want, where I want.

(And I might peek at the list now and then for pointers.)

That is all.