Gravity's Rainbow and forcing ourselves through "great…
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Gravity's Rainbow and forcing ourselves through "great" books
Hey fellow literati,
As a private joke for myself, before setting off for some summer travel, I perused my bookshelves and thought, "What's the least-beachy beach read I could bring on this trip?" And my eyes settled on *Gravity's Rainbow.* With a week away from the kids, what better time to tackle this stalwart of "greatest 20th century novel" lists and legendarily fearsome tome?
Bracing myself for abstruse and humblingly erudite prose, I was pleasantly surprised when the first few pages were lyrical and poetic, dropping my jaw with their beauty. "Whence the dreadful reputation?" thought I. "This will be so enjoyable, so inspiring for my own writing."
Oops. After those first few glorious pages, I've slogged through a hundred more, with only glimmers of artful phraseology amidst a large, drab backdrop of wandering narrative, unsympathetic characters, and WWII-era references and minutia lost on me without extensive secondary reading.
I do believe in the value of challenging ourselves, that not everything worthwhile in life is going to be fun. But as my 50th birthday looms, I'm all too aware that the time I have left to read is limited.
With the 30+ hours it might take me to grit my teeth through the remaining majority of *Gravity's Rainbow*, I could be reading works from other authors I know and love, getting to know new authors, or rereading classics I haven't touched in a long time.
So, a few questions prompted by *Gravity's Rainbow*, but also bigger than GR: are we allowed to wish that our "great" literature be enjoyable? Is there merit beyond the private-bibliophile-checklist kind to persevering through such a work, knowing well you'll be leaving a lot of intellectual money on the table? How should we spend our remaining reading hours on this warming blue/green rock hurtling through the endless void?
#entertainment
source
Hey fellow literati,
As a private joke for myself, before setting off for some summer travel, I perused my bookshelves and thought, "What's the least-beachy beach read I could bring on this trip?" And my eyes settled on *Gravity's Rainbow.* With a week away from the kids, what better time to tackle this stalwart of "greatest 20th century novel" lists and legendarily fearsome tome?
Bracing myself for abstruse and humblingly erudite prose, I was pleasantly surprised when the first few pages were lyrical and poetic, dropping my jaw with their beauty. "Whence the dreadful reputation?" thought I. "This will be so enjoyable, so inspiring for my own writing."
Oops. After those first few glorious pages, I've slogged through a hundred more, with only glimmers of artful phraseology amidst a large, drab backdrop of wandering narrative, unsympathetic characters, and WWII-era references and minutia lost on me without extensive secondary reading.
I do believe in the value of challenging ourselves, that not everything worthwhile in life is going to be fun. But as my 50th birthday looms, I'm all too aware that the time I have left to read is limited.
With the 30+ hours it might take me to grit my teeth through the remaining majority of *Gravity's Rainbow*, I could be reading works from other authors I know and love, getting to know new authors, or rereading classics I haven't touched in a long time.
So, a few questions prompted by *Gravity's Rainbow*, but also bigger than GR: are we allowed to wish that our "great" literature be enjoyable? Is there merit beyond the private-bibliophile-checklist kind to persevering through such a work, knowing well you'll be leaving a lot of intellectual money on the table? How should we spend our remaining reading hours on this warming blue/green rock hurtling through the endless void?
#entertainment
source
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