Just Some Reading

Have you ever considered the post colonial complexities of Othello, or The Tempest? Or pondered the Marxist message in Heart of Darkness? Have you ever stopped to explore the neoclassical nuances in Lolita? What about the post-structural possibilities of the Chronicles of Narnia? Do you think that the role of literature is to both represent and influence the reading collective? Death of the author, birth of the reader; is there a text, is the text more than words printed on the page; will any of us ever truly read the same book twice? Or are you, like me, totally engaged by the scene in Beowulf where the hero rips off Grendel’s arm and bludgeons the monster to death with it?

At what point did literature become more about political and social commentary and less about beautiful words? Think of your favourite book. Do you enjoy it because it illuminates the struggles of working-class society, or do you read it every summer because it makes you laugh, cry, and in the back of your mind you have a steamy crush on that main character? A book resonates with us because it speaks to our soul, not because it is a response to the socio-economic changes in the twentieth century. And, sure, you can argue that maybe a book is your favourite because it accomplishes both, but beautiful language is what makes us truly enjoy a piece of literature. If that wasn’t the case, then we’d all be reviewing dissertations and carrying essays in our beach bags.

I hate that there’s dichotomy in literature. Why can’t you read Dean Koontz one week and Dante the next? I think it is a real shame that authors like Clive Barker – the master of grotesque beauty and the modern sublime, aren't yet found on course lists. Why does credible literature need to do more than disgust and intrigue? Why does it need to be something else? Hemmingway said, sometimes a fish is just a fish. Of course he was probably just messing with the critics, but if it’s a beautifully described fish, does it really need to represent the oppression weighed down on us by “the man”? I don’t know if I’m a New Critic theorist who thinks only the words on the page matter, or a Russian Formalist who considers authorial intent. I hope I’m not a theorist at all. What I know in my heart is that I am a fan of literature. I love to read books. I let my imagination carry me into the Victorian meadows of nineteenth century England. I love to create the faces of villains and the boudoirs of lusty couplings. I eat beautiful words until they sweat from my pores and belch from my lungs onto the pages of my own cheaply bought and often abandoned notebooks. Criticize ideas, sure, but don’t be jaded against words.

So I have a challenge to all you intellectual readers out there. Read some smut! Find a trade paperback and let yourself dog-ear the pages. You can’t quote Kant all the time. Read a thriller, a whodunit, a sweet little read. I promise you, if you refrain from dissecting everything you read you won’t suddenly find yourself dimmer, duller, or a downright dolt. Introduce yourself to Douglas Preston and Lincoln Child, Lee Child, Kate Mosse, Jeffery Deaver, and James Rollins. Rediscover Douglas Adams, Evelyn Waugh, Joseph Boyden, Beatrice Culleton Mosionier and J.K. Rowling. Step out of academe and enjoy José Saramago, and Clive Barker. In short, stop taking your canon from course lists and suggested readings. Don’t hide your “easy summer read” behind a leather book jacket.

Tom Robbins wrote in Villa Incognito, “It has been reported that Tanuki fell from the sky using his scrotum as a parachute.” What’s your favourite hilarious or beautiful literary line or scene? Let’s talk about books for a while and leave the theory out of it. Let out your dirty little secrets, readers! I promise you that we’ll have great conversations free from theoretical jargon, and beauty will find its way back to brilliance.