Wow. It’s unbelievable, how long this e-mail is going to be (daunting, isn’t it? Don’t worry – I’m as interesting as ever).
You probably calculate the time it will take you. Pointless thought, if I might add. Why won’t you think of me instead? After all, do you how long it took to type it?
I, however, am gladly willing to make such a noble sacrifice, due to its evident importance to the nation and all humans. All great sacrifices are made under the same pretence, I know.
There is a book that I’ve read. I’m not about to reveal its name the reason being – I didn’t like it. At least, not enough to finish it.
It’s not that I didn’t get the story. I got it. I just didn’t get what it wanted to say. More accurately, I didn’t understand where it wanted to go and what exactly it was getting at – if it wanted to get anywhere at all. I’m perfectly willing to accept allegories and metaphors, but I didn’t think there were any. Neither allegories nor metaphors. It was a simple story, trying to disguise itself as something more complex by over simplifying things, which are very simple to begin with.
It is as if the author thought that by disassembling realities and every day experiences into tiny units he would be able to create some sort of sophisticated, fresh and innovative genre.
I’m not quite sure why, but I’m sure however, it didn’t work.
The balances were not in tune.
The subordinate became the main course.
It’s not the only bad book I’ve read recently (no choice of my own!). This other book was obviously published because somewhere in the world there was an editor who thought it was worthy enough. But that book wasn’t. Actually, it wasn’t even a book. It was just a heap of words that didn’t say much and was not well written.
It was sad, though, a fact that made me deliberate on the idea that literature, like everything else, is also subject to fashion. I guess that people now love these gloomy works, which pretend to be a reflective composition of life and the different phases it goes through, painted with the darkest, most depressing colors available.
The problem is that all these writers, and the editors, rely too much on “sad” and “sadness” and think that that will make the book meaningful.
Only it’s not true. It doesn’t happen, and all we are left with is pages and printed words that mean nothing.
Sadness doesn’t equal substance and gloominess is no guarantee for depth.
The other day I was watching Wreckers about a married couple, whose marriage begins to unfold due to the unexpected visit of the brother in law (the husband’s brother) and a revelation about their questionable fertility:
Shall I say that the story line was solid and crystallized?
I could, but it would be a lie: in the interview, held with the cast and the director (oh, come on – did you honestly think I wouldn’t watch it?), the director explained that the movie’s foggy atmosphere was part of her general plan – to create a collection of memories, a kind of mosaic of retro-perspective, looking back on life changing events (my paraphrase of the interviewer’s idea. What interesting insight he had!).
So after I had listened to the panel, I realized that “Wreckers” was a movie in which art could not be separated from the narrative, actors, costumes or scenery. The idea is not bad or good – it’s just what it is. You can’t argue with art.
You can disagree and say that I expect to be fed with a spoon.
And then I’ll tell you to watch Last Chance Harvey with Dustin Hoffman and Emma Thompson.
The most powerful scene in the movie takes place very early on, when Emma Thompson walks into the bathroom of a pub, where she hangs out with her friends, sits on the lavatory seat and burst into tears. It’s a brief cry that takes only a moment and after which she comes to her senses and pulls herself together, but it’s a cry that says it all.
It only lasts a moment, maybe less then twenty seconds, but in that moment, Emma Thompson shows us a whole world. She is able to do it because she is a gifted actress (I think she should print that on her business card), who understands the experience the character is going through and is able to refine her performance in a most accurate way.
It doesn’t matter who you are: a woman who married at the age of 16 and now has 10 children, a divorcee + 2 or a spinster at the age of 53. If someone does his job properly, it will be appreciated by all.
Unlike a good job well done, the anonymous books were not. This is why I’ve stopped reading them and I wasn’t consumed with remorse. I wasn’t ashamed either. Maybe because I was determined not to waste my time over something which didn’t deserve it, something I didn’t enjoy reading.
Or maybe it was due to the following articles that I’ve read:
The first was about the excess supply of books that – literally – flood our world and does not encourage reading by anyone (yourself excluded).
The second article talked about children’s classics that are now getting republished, thus allowing the parents who didn’t read the books in their youth to discover and relish them in their adulthood.
These were complementary articles, although they were not meant to be: articles that explain that there are more books we will not read in comparison to those we will, and yet they reassure us that those of importance will survive the test of time and the massive inundation of publications.
Not every book is suitable for every reader. A variety is a positive thing for the wider range of needs of many people. What suits us – waits for us, because it will be worth waiting for.
The two books I read were probably not the right books for me. Therefore, I’ve no desire to torture myself while reading them, just as I have no desire to wear shoes that are two sizes too small.
I’m not saying it out loud – that is, giving their titles and authors – because maybe there are other people out there, who will think they are the right books for them.
Why should I deprive them of possible joy?
A book that I’m willing to call by its name is “Sudden Rain” by Maritta Wolff. Although it wasn’t one of the most enlightening things I’ve ever read, like the prologue claims, it has something very important to contribute to our discussion.
Maybe if I had read the book thirty or forty years ago, I would have considered it to be a sensation. On the other hand, I did read it through, so apparently it is still suitable for our time. I guess it has to do with the fact that it talks about people in an interesting way. The last segment, about the terrible fire and the person who deliberately started it – is realistic, provocative and philosophical.
One can say something about every single character. Every single one had experienced a colossal disaster, which shook them out of their familiar routine. Maritta Wolff may not offer much more than that, but a good and convincing presentation, not to mention a consistent and developed one, is an achievement one should not take lightly. I’m sure I didn’t (in light of its two anonymous ancestors).
I’m not vain enough to think that this book had waited forty years just so it could be read by me. And yet, “Sudden Rain” certainly supports my argument that in spite of the abundance of words, we still read books – even books which were written a long (sometime very long) time ago.
A good book is resilient to the winds of change.
I think it is best to sum things up with the following anecdote: there is an Israeli writer by the name of Dorit Rabinyan who was once invited to Germany, to autograph her books in a book fair. She started to cross a gigantic hall with thousands of stands and booths. While passing the endless offers of stock, all offering the similer merchandise, Dorit Rabinyan started deliberating on the justification of her own book in such a massive supply. Who really needed to read her book?
That’s a very… I wanted to write “logical” thought, but then the word “provincial” came to mind. Think about it for a moment: who really needs another actor in Hollywood? But, if all the actors and actress we can name (and we can name them!) would have take that railway car for a drive and seen all the people who were trying to succeed and then decided to give up, would we still be able to name them all?
I’m not saying that they are all good, but there are some who do wonderful work. It shouldn’t allow a gigantic fair to discourage them.
Susan Sarandon says in the movie Shall We Dance that people get married so that someone will witness their lives, so that they won’t go by, unnoticed. I don’t necessarily agree with that sentence, but it fits nicely here.
Everyone has something to contribute. We just have to connect the dots.
And speaking of dots… type something back, if you don’t mind.
Just so I know you’re alive.
All the best,
Gitit
