A for effort

Joseph Caldwell

Swine-herding, he discovered, had more similarities than he had suspected to the writing of a novel: an unremitting commitment, an unrelenting discipline, an uncertain outcome, and, ultimately, the unpredictable prospects when the time for marketing arrived.

Joseph Caldwell, The Pig Goes to Hog Heaven

All writers are underrated. They're all trying to do their best. It's hard to finish a book.

Nicholson Baker, By the Book,
edited by Pamela Paul

Nicholson Baker

Writers, like everyone else, would like to receive an A for effort. One reason most authors have a low opinion of literary critics is that those critics, charged as they are with evaluating the final product, fail to appreciate the effort that went into that product. (Of course, book reviews take a bit of effort, too, even if not nearly what goes into writing the book under review.)

The above lines from novelists Joseph Caldwell and Nicholson Baker reflect the difficulties and uncertainties that go into writing a book, any book. It represents a huge investment of time for an uncertain reward. In this sense, all writers are underrated, as Baker puts it. (He later, oddly enough, makes an exception for William Shakespeare, who he says is overrated.)

Just a few pages later in his novel, Caldwell peeks into the mind of another character and has her say, "Just because I wrote a novel doesn't make me a writer. Who can't write a novel if she's got half a head?" This is a comic novel, but Larry McMurtry is serious when he says something similar in one of his memoirs. He writes about how difficult screenplays are to write but that he can turn out a novel with ease.

Perhaps when one has written as many books as McMurtry has, the process becomes easier. I suspect that most writers, however, would choose to agree with Caldwell, in his initial comment, and Baker. "Writing is hard work," they would say. "Give us a break."

The joy of rereading

The joy of reading is in the rereading; this is where you get to know the world and characters in deep and rewarding fashion.

Walter Mosley, By the Book, edited by Pamela Paul

This statement by mystery writer Walter Mosley qualifies as overstatement, for most readers can find joy in reading a book the first time. If not, why bother reading it a second time? And how often do most readers reread a book anyway?

Even so, Mosley's statement contains a good deal of truth. Rereading can enhance the joy to found in books, or at the very least repeat the joy or perhaps remind us of the joy we once felt reading it, even if, now at a different stage of life, we no longer experience the same joy.

Mosley compares a reader rereading to a writer rewriting. Most authors do rewrite their work, or at least some of it, even if just changing a few words here and there to make it better. Even the best writers don't always get it right the first time. In much the same way, readers don't always get it right the first time. We miss things, such as symbolism or foreshadowing that becomes more apparent on a second or third reading.

It is much the same way with movies. The first time we watch a film, we are mostly just interested in the story. We may not notice certain details that become more significant in subsequent viewings. Last week, for example, I watched an independent film called The Station Agent for the third time. Only then did I catch the significance of the title or realize what a train symbolizes in the film. Never before had I experienced the same joy in watching the movie. I think this is what Mosley is talking about.

He also compares reading a book for the first time to a first date. On a first date, you do little more than get acquainted and discover whether the relationship is worth continuing. With respect to books, that "second date" may take years to come about, although a few people make it a point to reread a favorite book once a year.

Second dates can sometimes be more disappointing than first dates, of course. This summer I reread Wild Times, a sprawling western saga by Brian Garfield, and found it not nearly as enjoyable as I had remembered it. The Problem of Pain by C.S. Lewis seemed more intellectually challenging than when I read it in college, although it still offered joy and I was glad I had returned to it.

In recent years I have reread such fiction as J.D. Salinger's Franny and Zooey, Graham Greene's Monsignor Quixote and Jesse Stuart's The Land Beyond the River, as well as such lighter fare as Donald E. Westlake's Dancing Aztecs and James Grady's Three Days of the Condor. Each rereading brought joy at least equal to the first time.

Presidential reading

John Adams

Nicholas A. Basbanes devotes most of one chapter in Every Book Its Reader to the reading habits of U.S. presidents. (He also discusses the reading habits of British royalty.) On the basis of an interview with David McCullough, a biographer of John Adams, he rates Adams the most dedicated reader of all presidents. Adams didn't just read and reread many books, but he made comments on almost every page he read. Sometimes he left almost as many words in the margins as were printed on the page to begin with. His son, John Quincy Adams, was also a serious reader, even if not up the standard of his father.

Basbanes says Jimmy Carter could read at a faster clip than any other president. Theodore Roosevelt was famous for taking boxes of books with him on his hunting trips. He gave books a higher priority than food. The purpose of the trips were to hunt for food, but books weren't likely to be found in the wild.

In a New York Times Book Review essay at the end of the Clinton administration, Harold Evans wrote that 22 of 42 presidents had been bibliophiles. That's slightly more than 50 percent, an impressive number and far in excess of the population at large. But that depends on how one defines bibliophile and how one determines how much someone, such as a relatively obscure 19th century U.S. president,  actually read.

Harry Truman at his desk.

There does not appear to be any correlation at all between how much a president read and how successful his presidency was, or between level of education and success in the White House, or even between education and fondness for books. Abraham Lincoln, for example, had little formal education, but he was an avid reader who memorized much of Shakespeare. He was among the greatest presidents. Harry Truman, another serious reader, was the last president not to attend college, but another outstanding president.

Herbert Hoover was highly educated and a reader, but his presidency could hardly be termed a success. Ronald Reagan was no reader, but he served two terms with distinction. Carter, for all his reading prowess, earned much less distinction.

Some president have been famous for their light reading, John F. Kennedy for his fondness for James Bond and Dwight Eisenhower for his western novels. Yet both read much more serious books, as well. Eisenhower was a devoted student of history, especially military history. There may have been no major battle in history that he hadn't read about and studied in detail. If his reading didn't make him a better president, it certainly helped make him a better general.

Many presidents, Kennedy and Eisenhower among them, have also written books. Theodore Roosevelt was a prolific writer on a variety of subjects, including those hunting trips. Carter and Richard Nixon, among others, have also been writers, especially after their White House days were over. Of all presidential memoirs, those of Ulysses S. Grant continue to receive the highest marks.

Among the standard questions Pamela Paul asks in her New York Times Book Review feature By the Book, and reprinted in her book of the same title, is what book the president should be required to read. The responses were diverse, everything from Shel Silverstein's Don't Bump the Glump! to Fifty Shades of Grey to Team of Rivals to Meditations by Marcus Aurelius. There have certainly been exceptions, but it appears most presidents have not needed required reading lists.

Still more surprises

Pamela Paul's collection of her By the Book interviews from The New York Times Book Review was full of unexpected things. Here are a few more.

Walter Mosley

Walter Mosley believes it's sinful to keep books after one has finished reading them

If that is true, I am among the greatest of sinners. I have always believed that almost any book worth reading is worth keeping. But here is how Walter Mosley, author of the Easy Rawlins mysteries, puts it: "I am proud to say that I give away or sell at little or no profit almost all of my books. ... After I have read, reread, and reread a book it seems sinful to keep such a reservoir of fun and knowledge fallow on a shelf. Books are meant to be read, and if I'm not reading them then someone else should get the opportunity."

OK, there are several things about that statement that surprise me. 1) Why is it more "sinful" to keep a book than to sell it for "little or no profit"? 2) How does one sell used books for profit anyway, unless they are rare books or were free in the first place, such as review copes? Perhaps Mosley's name on a book, whether he wrote it not, enhances its value. 3) Isn't pride, such as for giving away books, itself a sin? 4) If Mosley keeps a book long enough to read it three times, doesn't that require keeping a book for a long time? And if a book is worth reading three times, why not a fourth? 5) Most books, if taken care of, will outlive us all. So most will eventually find their way back into circulation. Why hurry the process? 6) Why would it be more sinful for a book to sit on my shelf than somebody else's shelf? All books spend most of their lives on shelves, not in readers' hands.

Sebastian Flyte and Franny Glass as role models?

Certainly Sebastian Flyte from Evelyn Waugh's Brideshead Revisited and Franny Glass from J.D. Salinger's Franny and Zooey are memorable characters from literature, but they are also extremely tortured characters, not the sort I would expect to be literary heroes. Sebastian is tortured by wealth, privilege, his mother's insistence on Catholic conformity, his own homosexuality and his alcoholism. Franny suffers a severe breakdown, whether spiritual or mental, in the two related Salinger stories. Yet Andrew Solomon says he identified with Sebastian in his youth, and Donna Tartt says she identified with Franny Glass when she was in her teens.

Harriet the Spy was a favorite childhood book for Michael Chabon and Jonathan Franzen

None of the women interviewed mentioned Harriet as a childhood literary hero, but Chabon and Franzen did. Yet I was interested whenever certain children's books received multiple mentions, demonstrating the influence such books have had on literary careers. Among those stories future storytellers loved were A Wrinkle in Time (mentioned perhaps more than any others) the Narnia books, Little Women, the Sherlock Holmes stories, Alice in Wonderland and Charlotte's Web. Of course, most children love these books, so perhaps there is no surprise here after all.

More surprises

I wrote last week (Aug. 16, 2017) about my surprise that several authors interviewed in By the Book give what Michael Connelly calls "a short leash" to books by other writers. But that was just one of the surprises for me in Pamela Paul's collection from The New York Times Book Review, which she edits. Here are some others.

J.K. Rowling doesn't read fantasy

You might expect the author of the Harry Potter books, one of the most successful fantasy series in literary history, would be a reader of fantasy novels written by others. But apparently not. This may be why the Harry Potter series strikes readers as being so unique. She didn't, deliberately or not, borrow ideas from others.

The book that had the greatest impact on Richard Dawkins was The Black Cloud by Fred Hoyle

It shocks me that The Black Cloud, a science fiction novel I read as a teenager, could have had a significant impact on anyone's life. It wasn't very good, and Dawkins admits as much. At least as a work of fiction it wasn't very good, but Hoyle was one of the major astronomers of his day, and Dawkins said he "learned more science from it, at a formative age, than one ever expects from a work of fiction."

The novel may also have been important to Dawkins because, like himself, Hoyle was an outspoken atheist. Although he coined the phrase "the big bang," Hoyle rejected the idea of the big bang to explain the origin of the universe, preferring the theory that the universe has always been either expanding or deflating and will continue to do so forever. Just as some Christians reject the big bang theory because it is inconsistent with the book of Genesis, some atheists reject it because it is consistent with Genesis, namely the idea that everything had a beginning, out of nothing.

James Patterson admires James Joyce

Somehow I wouldn't have expected James Patterson, whose many thrillers are among the best-selling books of our time, to read, let alone idolize, James Joyce. Yet he says, "Gabriel Garcia Marquez, James Joyce and Gunter Grass are important to me because their writing made it crystal clear that I wasn't capable of the write stuff. Those three dream-killers are still among my favorites."

So apparently, if he had his druthers, Patterson would prefer to write great literary works that few people read than thrillers that millions of people read.

Clear glass, stained glass

"Good prose is like a window pane," George Orwell once wrote. That is, it should frame the view from that window without obstructing that view. You see the world through the window, not the window itself.

David McCullough

That analogy seems more apt for some kinds of writing than for others. When we are reading history or biography, for example, or a front-page newspaper story, we are more interested in the information being presented than in the way it is being presented. That's why a writer like David McCullough is so popular. Whether he is writing about John Adams or the history of the Panama Canal, his prose is crystal clear, allowing even readers of no special intelligence to understand what is going on and stay interested. The reader is able to see the picture McCullough frames without being distracted by flowery or obtuse prose. His style is effective because, until we stop to think about it, it is invisible.

Many writers of fiction are also like this, tellers of vivid stories that seem to flow effortlessly and naturally along, as if the writers themselves had almost nothing to do with it. I am currently in midst of Helen Simonson's The Summer Before the War, and Simonson strikes me as this kind of writer.  She plays no tricks with time, like so many modern writers, but tells her story in chronological order. She never tries to be obscure or flashy. She may win no literary prizes, but readers love her stories and, whether they realize it or not, appreciate her window-pane prose.

P.G. Wodehouse

Yet sometimes we want stained glass, not clear glass, in our windows. Sometimes we appreciate the glory of the author's language as much as, or more than, the author's story. A case in point has to be P.G. Wodehouse. He wrote dozens of novels, and the plots, while interesting, are often pretty much alike. Usually young love stands in jeopardy in some way. An older person, normally an aunt or a gruff father, stands in the way. Some wise person, such as Jeeves in the Bertie Wooster novels or Uncle Fred or Galahad in the Blandings novels, concocts a convoluted plan to save the day, but not before there are numerous hilarious complications. Yet we read Wodehouse novels just to delight in how he tells these stories.

I recently finished Galahad at Blandings, published in 1965. Among the stained-glass gems in this novel are these:

"Lady Hermione did not strike her brother with a bludgeon, but this was simply because she had no bludgeon."

"He was standing in the middle of the room with something of the air of a public monument waiting to be unveiled ..."

That's the kind of prose one notices and wants to read a second or third time to savor. Other novels I've read recently have also had lines good enough to make a reader stop.

The Opposite of Everyone by Joshilyn Jackson: "We pass through a den that died and got embalmed way back in 1967, down a dingy hallway, past a pink-tiled bathroom."

The Writing Class by Jincy Willett: "Only in art were there cliches, never in nature. There were no ordinary human beings. Everybody was born with a surprise inside."

Headlong by Michael Frayn: "Then the door's open, and we're in the middle of a genial battle to squeeze past a lunging tangled slavering amiable mass of dog."

Most of the time we prefer our reading matter, like our homes, to come with clear windows, but sometimes, as of a Sunday, we enjoy a little stained glass.

Something for everyone

I put down most books, unfinished. Most books aren't very good, and there's no reason they should be.

Richard Ford, By the Book

Richard Ford

While reading By the Book, Pamela Paul's collection of interviews published in The New York Times Book Review, I was surprised how many published authors, like Richard Ford, quickly put down books that don't immediately grab their interest. I would have expected that professional writers, who expect other readers to give their own books a fair chance, would be more tolerant of books written by others.

Jonathan Franzen said, "Most books I pick up I put down without finishing." "I put down at least a book or two a week," James Patterson said. "My time to read is too short," said Michael Connelly, "so I only give a book -- any book -- a short leash. It's got to draw me in quickly." E.L. Doctorow said, "Sometimes I put books down that are good but that I see too well what the author is up to."

Joyce Carol Oates

At the other extreme is Colin Powell, former secretary of state and an author in his own right, who said, "I find some greatness in every book." Joyce Carol Oates said she was trained to view disappointment with a book as a character flaw on the part of the reader, "a failure to comprehend what others have clearly appreciated." Ford actually made a concession to this viewpoint when he added to his own comment, "sometimes I return to a book I've left unfinished and discover -- pleasurably -- that it was I, not the book, that was unsatisfactory."

Pliny the Elder once wrote, "No book so bad but some part may be of use," which would seem to place him in the Powell-Oates camp.

My own view lies somewhere between the extremes of most books are good and most books are bad. It is expressed in the title of a 2005 book by Nicholas A. Basbanes, Every Book Its Reader. This comes from Five Laws of Library Science, written in 1931 by S.R. Ranganathan. Two of these laws are Every Reader His Book and Every Book Its Reader.

Perhaps this is a romantic idea, like saying, "There's someone out there for everyone," but I find it appealing. Even the self-published book that never sells a single copy has its reader, namely the person who wrote it and thought highly enough of it to pay to get it published.

The writers and others whose reading profiles are presented in By the Book reveal an amazing variety of reading tastes. Books that excite some of them, turn off others. That variety is multiplied many times over among the rest of us readers. For each of us there is a book somewhere that will speak to us, and for every book there is someone who will respond to what it says.

While searching for that one ideal book, each of us, like Richard Ford, has every right to put aside those books that fail to interest us, even if, as Joyce Carol Oates suggests, the fault lies more with us than with the books.