Shattering My Own Illusions, Or A Hobby

If you've read my review of Jim the Boy, you'll know that I unintentionally approach books with preconceptions...which are often quickly revealed to be grave misconceptions. I know, I know, my fallibility is astounding. And the presumptuousness of my innate need to interpret texts! How daring.

What I probably shouldn't admit is just how often my misconceptions about books are revealed even as they shatter. Over the past month or so, I've read two books and started another, all of which have challenged my preconceived notions of what is what. So it's been on my mind. A lot.

The first book is The Life of Pi by Yann Martel. I remember my mom reading it and my brother reading it, and they both enjoyed it. I don't know why I resisted their recommendations and translated their feelings into "Ugh. No thanks." Maybe it was just my bad attitude talking. Maybe it's because I was still bitter about being forced to read 100 Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez and Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte, both of which I despised on first encounter. (I've since revised my opinion on 100 Years of Solitude. Wuthering Heights not so much.) Whatever the reason, the "Ugh. No thanks." response lasted until a few weeks ago.

Then I read it. And I found depth tempered by absurdity (I don't know why I was so surprised--the basic concept in itself is wonderfully ridiculous). And, of course, there was the mindf*** of an ending. (I apologize for the crudeness of that highly technical term.) I'll be the first to admit that I'm not a huge fan of high-brow-ish literature (short attention span and an impatience with self-aggrandizement), but I enjoyed Life of Pi. So much so, it finally pushed me to climb a literary mountains I've put off reading for over a year.

That mountains was the second book--The Satanic Verses by Salman Rushdie. I'll preen my feathers a bit here: I enjoyed Midnight's Children, and Haroun and the Sea of Stories is one of my favorite books. So I guess I can say I like Rushdie's work. But I knew that The Satanic Verses wasn't going to be on par with my previous experiences with him--even people who like his work warned me that they didn't enjoy this particular book. So I had no preconception that I was going to love it, but that's not why I wanted to read it. Actually, it's been on my list out of sheer curiosity--I wanted to see what the fuss (intentional understatement) was all about.

I already knew Rushdie to be an outspoken critic of Islam, but, to be honest, prejudice inclined me to expect it blown out of proportion. And I'm sorry for that. Do I think it deserved the fatwa, the call for his death? Absolutely not. But did I find his depiction of Muhammad and Islam offensive and disrespectful? Yes--it even felt almost catty at times. I understand the chip in Rushdie's shoulder, but I also understand the outrage his work caused, though I think extremists took their reactions way too far. But don't Christian fundamentalists do the same thing? Every natural disaster is followed by *someone* (I don't think I have to name names here) blaming tragedy on a people group they don't agree with.

To cut off any commentary before it starts: to my knowledge, I don't think any Christian leader has called for someone's death in response to a piece of art in recent-ish times. But before we get all self-congratulatory, remember that the afore-not-mentioned person, as well as many other prominent Christian leaders, only fuel the divisiveness, hatred, and bigotry that has stained and continues to stain the Church.

Now where was I? Ah, yes, The Satanic Verses. Now I feel like I can bring at least a slightly more nuanced understanding to the topic, my curiosity is satisfied, and another misconception has met its rightful end.

The book that has my current attention is The Book Thief by Markus Zusak. Like Life of Pi, it was recommended to me by several knowledgeable and trustworthy parties, but I avoided it. Unlike Life of Pi, however, I know exactly why I've said "No thanks" up until now. You see, the cynic in me is wary of books focusing on enormous tragedies and horrors of human history, particularly the Holocaust. As someone who's studied the history through texts and photographs and wandered horror-struck through a concentration camp, I shudder at the thought of this atrocity (words really can't convey the enormity of it) being forgotten. And powerful, beautiful art has arisen from the need to remember it, to bring it to life for generations to follow--I was particularly touched by Trial of God by Elie Wiesel, a fictionalized account of a trial of God conducted in a Jewish ghetto. But I also think that there is too much temptation to exploit horror for plot. Maybe I'm being overly paranoid and protective of a history that isn't mine to tell, but I also can't shake the feeling that there's a truth in that suspicion. After all, we slow down to look at car accidents, even though a better part of us tells us not to.

I haven't finished the book yet, so I'll withhold my final judgment of The Book Thief (and no spoiler alerts, please!). But so far (300+ pages in), it's different. It's special.

These misconceptions are part of the reason that I assign myself reading list. I never want to stop expanding my comfort zone, in life and in my bookshelf.

Of course, I have no problem expanding my book collection. Ah, the list grows ever on and on, down from the shelf where it began... Extra awesome points if you get the reference.