Roger Sutton has a fine comment on an editorial by Nicholas Kristof in this past Sunday’s New York Times. I agree that any list of the BEST BOOKS OF ALL TIME is pointless. Tastes change. I know that the books I loved when I was younger I have to work at enjoying now. (Although–I admit it–I still can’t read Charlotte’s Web without choking up. I think Cornell University had a big retrospective on E.B. White’s work once upon a time and displayed about 21 pages of White’s attempts to get the first sentence of that book the way he wanted it. Or maybe it was Wind in the Willows . . . I don’t remember.)
I do disagree with one reader’s comment, which made a duel-edged argument: one, adults don’t read kids’ books and so don’t really have a clue about what “good” books for kids are and, two, that many adults are clueless when it comes to “good” adult fiction–which then explains why “crappy” blockbuster fiction thrives.
Well, okay, I agree that until I got serious about YA fiction, I had no clue about what GREAT BOOKS were being written. But I wasn’t clueless. For my own kids, we started off with stuff I remembered reading–Watership Down, Charlotte’s Web, A Wrinkle in Time . . . stuff like that. Since books were/are always available–I’ve never stinted when it comes to books–I let the kids go wild whenever we visited a bookstore. (And this is yet another reason why BOOKSTORES MUST SURVIVE!!! Where else will kids get a chance to explore books? Pointing and clicking . . . it’s just not the same.) We came out with armfuls and, in time, I let my kids guide me. Some of the stuff they’ve read is terrific; some of it is . . . meh. Doesn’t float my boat. Are they all “good?” Well, I dunno . . . if the kids are reading . . . and reading . . . and reading . . . who am I to judge? Why should I?
Same thing with adult fiction. Sure, there are fluffy beach reads. There are low-effort blockbusters. There are the wash, rinse, repeat books–you know exactly what you’re getting and the chocolate bar will taste just as good as the last bar you ate.
And SO WHAT? Are these books “good?” Well, let’s think about that. Books are, by and large, meant to be entertaining. If you’ve had a good time and feel you got your money’s worth . . . the book’s good. Period. If there’s a message in a book somewhere and you get it, so much the better. But I’ll be honest. A book that screams, Look at what WONDERFUL sentences I’ve got and demands that you really work at understanding . . . Well, is that entertaining? Am I enjoying myself? Will I close that book and think, Wow, that was a thumping good read? Honey, I already went to college. Been there, done that, wrote that paper, bought the t-shirt.
So . . . maybe not. What is “good” is, duh, a matter of taste. I’ve struggled through books that are supposed to be good for me; I’ve read others that I thought were brilliant and others thought a bore. What one editor accepts another hates. And if people are, hello, reading . . . who cares? Why so serious? Why must people only read GREAT LITERATURE (whatever the heck that is)? This reminds me of wandering through an art museum and being told that the Picasso I’m staring at is a GREAT PAINTING. Uh, well, to me . . . it’s just a bunch of lines that don’t do very much, thanks. But if you want to talk about that Caravaggio over there . . .
I don’t know from GREAT. I only know what I enjoy. The rest will sort itself out and, honestly, it’s not worth getting into a snit about.
