Criticsms

If anyone ever wished for me to write a true reflection of the world--the Truth--, I simply could not. It would be would be filled with loathing and hatred. It would be hard also on myself, because I'm deeply self-critical--even though I have grown apathetic and almost entirely passive. I do not mean hatred out of a source of loathing for the status-quo, but our hypocrisy,our failures and, ultimately, our complacency.

Why do I bring this up?

I am currently writing a story. A story that I am not going to say a lot about. This story has took a lot of my time in thinking if I should actually write it. I have decided, yes, I am going to, no matter what the consequence is.

There is a second reason. American literary critics, or, critics in general, do not understand violence or horror which is a reflection of something which truly happened. I bring these up, with examples. In the past couple of years, French novelists have been the aim of disgust from the hierarchy of American criticism.

The authors? Michel Houellebecq (pronounced Wellbeck) and Johnathan Littell, Littell being born in the US, living in France much of his life. Both of these novelist now live Spain, if the information I read is correct. But, primarily, they are French and in original publication the novels were in French and the authors lived in France. Due to controversies surrounding them, they have both left.

What have these authors done? The cliche to use is the word: shock, which Westerners love to reuse and reuse. I have thought of this a lot as to why I should really care about this. But, what these authors have done is give the world, in all actuality, what it needs and what it should be given. Discussing things with my best friend, we both consider each other brothers, Caio, he brought up Sade. The Marquis is still considered a disgust by many. But, Caio and I see through this, as we do with many artists in the world. I see de Sade as the one who wrote a short story of a deathbed story in which the main character renounces faith and God to the priest who is asking for him to deny his flesh and ask for forgiveness of his sins. Caio told me that Sade said that the truth is all that any artist is looking for and all they do. Both of highly agree with Sade to say the least.

Littell recently had his novel, "The Kindly Ones," translated and published in English, as any literary on-looker knows. It stirred up controversy with every major publication that still reviews books. Anyone who is a literary on-looker also knows that the book review is a dying commodity. (It's not at all sad, because the best books will always be passed around and talked about at the end of the year. The reviewing system, of course, is a system in which there is no real inherent value, especially with as poor criticism as we receive.) The reviews were very, well, critical of "The Kindly Ones."

The New Republic, in the final paragraph, stated: "A review cannot convey how deeply unpleasant the experience of reading The Kindly Ones is. This is one of the most repugnant books I have ever read."

David Gates, on the NYTimes, comments, "Call me philistine, but as I was reading Jonathan Littell’s novel 'The Kindly Ones,' a work of Tolstoyan heft, Dostoyevskyan darkness and Proustian sentence length (one of them goes on for three pages), I kept remembering those kiddie-historical fictions I used to read when I was 10 or 11." The NYTimes, of course, is among the most wretched and childish review sections ever, especially when the editors of the review put their reviews up. They come off as more than childish, as exampled here. "The Kindly Ones" was actually reviewed twice--yes, damn reviewing anything else. Maybe they could review an up and comer? But, no... they waste our time more on their wretched reviews. Michiko Kakutani's review is laboriously entitled, "Unrepentant and Telling of Horrors Untellable." I highly agree with Norman Mailer's comments on her.

Michel Houellebecq, known for his novels "The Elementary Particles" and "The Possibility of an Island," is revered in France and hailed by many critics. He is also disregarded by just as many critics as a misogynist, pornographer and instigator of religious of hatred--specifically towards Muslims, which, in my opinion, might be well founded.

John Updike, reviewing "The Possibility of an Island" in the New Yorker, titled his review "90% Hateful." Going on for four pages, Updike finally concludes: "The final edition of Daniel has sunk to the condition of a mollusk: 'I bathed for a long time under the sun and the starlight, and I felt nothing other than a slightly obscure and nutritive sensation.' The sensations that Houellebecq gives us are not nutritive."

Another review of Houellebecq in the New Yorker is entitled, "Hate and Hedonism."

When was hatred, in the form of literature, not something to be looked at differently? It is not of the mass consumption of television violence. Nor is it of the needless violence of many movies in which violence keeps the plot line going. It is not of the even more erroneous violence of terrorism or murder.

So, is literature not doing its purpose? Is there something that many Americans have forgotten about literature?

I would say, in both cases, literature is doing its purpose. Yes, we have forgotten something about true literature: it is not the escapism of such ridiculousness as such authors as Dan Brown or James Patterson.

I think I would like to be around Littell or Houllebecq any day compared to these other people. Their fans--another different matter--is something else.

By not accepting these novels, what happens is that these novels become even more marginalized. They also become fodder for those who do not understand what literature is for, to devour for their own pleasure. Perhaps, even enjoying some of the horrendous things, imagining themselves to be the horrible people in these novels, some people will acquire that they themselves are the main character. This happens once a novel is disregarded, lost to any substantial literary criticism and falls into the wrong hands. (Very soon, I will analyze this further in a piece, when I get the chance, entitled, you guessed it, "In the Wrong Hands.")

What we have is a failing system of literary criticism. What we have is precocious reviewers who are satisfied with books that are only for the economical advancement of a system that is dying out. Yes, the book is dying. A majority of it, besides the most revered of books, will go to electronic editions--which, needless to say, is the best thing considering the state of the world.

It is also worth noting that many who are praising books are either:
A) Paid to give a good or bad review
B) Peronsally know the reviewed
C) Are of the same agency as the reviewed
D) Are on the same "roster"/publisher as the reviewed

It must also be noted that I am not particularly praising either of their books, but the form in which these two men are working in that is dying out more and more.

It is also worth noting that Don DeLillo's "The Falling Man" was met with skeptical light and considering a "pretentious" 9/11 novel by Dwight Garner--a terrible reviewer of the New York Times--in his review of "Netherland" by Joseph O'Neill. I am enjoying O'Neill's "Netherland" beside the fact that Garner liked it too and that the President stated he was reading it as I was about 60 pages in. I like Obama, but not reading a great book that I personally enjoy on a dark level.

While I do not think that we have to like everything, because everything is not every one's cup of tea, these moments of genuine achievement in which their is deep reflection should not be vanquished. These moments are our history. These are the places in which we do not wish to see. These are the places that we need to look into, because once faced, they measure what a human being truly is.

-will