Wednesday, October 05, 2005

Snap judgments. Or crackle or pop judgments. Your call

You know how sometimes you're reading a book, and you've decided a third of the way (or less) through it whether you're going to like it or not? And sometimes you worry this is altering the way you read the book, prejudging it or whatever? Okay that last part doesn't matter so much for this next part but I wanted to get it off my chest--that sometimes I do that--as a dirty little confession and this seemed like the place to do it.

Anyways, so. Yeah. Let's just say I read the opening page or two of Orhan Pamuk's Snow last night and I'm really really sad I haven't been able to go back to the book since. I mean sure the next four hundred pages could be the literary equivalent of a post-opening page victory lap on Pamuk's part, and I hope and doubt it's not, but even if it were, I think I'd still be okay with it, because, wowee, those are some good opening paragraphs.

And I mean, I don't know, it's always a little weird, reading literature in translation, because (unlike some lit bloggers who are a million times more popular than me and a whole lot more incisive and active and generally better bloggers than I'll ever hope to be, but who shall remain nameless) you'd have to shovel a whole lot of horseshit to convince me there's some true divide between style and narrative, or entertainment and literature (I mean sure I know what the point is and all but seriously if you aren't entertained by literature then there's not much point in reading it, go read some philosophy or sociology texts instead, and if your narrative doesn't have style, then you're pretty much getting rid of any reason to make art, to make literature itself, and do I come across as bitter about the whole thing, because, damn, maybe I am, and really I do totally understand the point, Stephen King versus Fyodor "Jigga What?" Dostoevsky and all, but I really don't like the implications of all of it, that it's somehow all mutually exclusive, and dammit there I go again, aside ends now), I wind up stuck on questions like, How much of this do I like because of the author's original writing, and, How much of this do I like because of the style the translator has used in bringing this work over, and so forth and so on. Which is to say it's not that much happens narratively in that opening section, but that, for me, the style of the text brings what does happen to sharp, vivid, meaningful life.

So, you know, if it's Maureen Freely I have to thank as much as Orhan Pamuk for arresting my thoughts with a handful of paragraphs, so be it: thanks. I'm hooked. Send me a doctor's note so I can call in sick to work for a week, please? 'kay. Thanks, bye.

Oh and P.S., thanks for nothing; I mean, seriously, this was the week when I was supposed to stop "having a life" and start "writing my crappy fiction" again, and now I've got your stupid little opening paragraphs to be totally annoyed by, because they're great and better than anything I'll ever do, and I mostly want to just go read your little book instead of working on my own crap. What a serious pickle.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

Oh my goodness! I thought that I was the only one who had that reaction to Orhan Pamuk. I had started the first 30 pages of My Name is Red. It just wasn't happening for me. So I was forced to put the book down and come back later. I found that I dug it then.

I agree with you in part about literature that entertains. However, I think that training the mind to expand its ability to be entertained is essential to reading and thinking about literature. I'm wondering if "being entertained" is really a trick that the brain uses to absorb information. At least that's the way I've always approached it. Find the angle within Pamuk's work that strikes your fancy and I think you'll be able to masticate upon his text. And if not, keep in mind that one can't be "on" 100% of the time.