A Lament (of sorts)
I work at a used bookstore. It’s a good job. Actually, it’s a great job. I love what I do. Even though I have to wade though the muck most days (picture some spinster bringing in 500 romance novels that have been sitting in her attic for twenty years), it’s worth it to spot that copy of Ellman’s Joyce bio that I can hold for a co-worker and fellow Joycean.
So today I see the first copy of James Patterson’s 54th novel released this year, and I think (not for the first time), what is wrong with people? Why does the public at large shoot for the lowesr common denominator. Most likely, standing at the top of the New York Times bestseller list next week will be s book whose chapters can be read in an average of 45 seconds. In the same buy came the new Stephen King novel, blurbed by Michael Chabon. I don’rt know what to think about that either.
Then, I realized, well shit, I a week Mr. Pynchon will be delivering a three pound bomb to my doorstep, and that righted things a little. Can you imagine how buff I will be after carrying it around for a few weeks?
Seriously….James Patterson…at least when Tom Clancy farmed out his leftovers he had the decency to go straight to paperback.
November 16th, 2006 at 7:08 am
As I am also waiting for the new Pynchon novel, I stumbled over a Kundera piece in the New Yorker, that I think, describes our mournings:
“… a mediocre plumber may be useful to people, but a mediocre novelist who consciously produces books that are ephemeral, commonplace, conventional - thus not useful, thus burdensome, thus noxious - is contemptible” (Milan Kundera in TheNewYorker, Oct,9 2006,)
I used to work in bookstores for 10 years. But I couldn’t bear the stupid piles of insignificant trash around me and the people who demanded exactly that.