You see it there on the display table at the bookstore. That book. The one everyone is talking about. Its glossy cover has become ubiquitous on social media and best-book roundups. It’s gotten some famous person’s stamped seal of literary approval. The critics love it, and so does everyone else.
So you buy a copy. You figure, well, if everyone else loves it…
And then about fifty pages in, you fold the book over your lap and think: hold up, this is the book everyone’s been talking about? The one I’m not sure I want to finish? You ponder the meaning of this. You mull over the subjective nature of art. You wonder: am I missing something, or does everyone else just have bad taste? Do I have bad taste? Eek!
Then you ponder another possibility: did you come into your reading with a bias against the book simply because it’s so popular?
When Nirvana first hit the scene in the earlier 90s, I was in high school. I loved them. I loved their album Bleach, and when Nevermind dropped, I thought it was great, and I listened to the album on repeat on my Sony Discman. But then something weird happened. Nirvana became the biggest band in the world and listening to them went from underground chic to bandwagon trendy in a hot minute. And somewhere during that hot minute, I lost my taste for their music. It just didn’t sound the same. I’m not totally sure the two things were related, but I think they probably were.
The other day, I was at a bar and overheard a couple of people next to me talking about how they just couldn’t get into The Wire. I happen to love The Wire. I think it’s one of the top two or three television shows ever made. It’s not just great. It’s GREAT, you know? Which is why listening to these people waffle over its quality made me feel like I had bugs crawling all over me.
And yet, what does any of this really matter? Why do we want other people to like what we like? And what’s with the strange social pressure that’s out there to have seen and to like what’s most popular? After everyone flipped out over the TV show The Bear, my wife and I started watching it. We couldn’t get into it. All the screaming, quick cuts, and frenetic pace was just a bit much before bed. BTW, I’ve been watching it again recently and really enjoying it. I’m hooked. Go figure.
Blah, blah, who cares? Dammit, I care! And since you’ve come this far, I’ll bet you do too.
Back to books.
Let’s talk about Lessons in Chemistry, the uber-bestselling smash hit novel by Bonnie Garmus. I didn’t love Lessons in Chemistry. That’s not to say I hated it either. It was meh for me. But I know that, as I read it, I felt out of sync for not feeling smitten. Barnes and Noble even named it their book of the year. I liked a lot of things about it. I found it humorous and spunky. I liked the voice, the setting, the atmosphere. Science is cool. And so are rowing and gender politics. But I found the book’s takes on feminism and gender identity a little watered down, and its super-quirky main character (a person who literally asks her friends to “pass the sodium chloride” at the table instead of saying “salt”) began to grate, respect her as I did.
And yet, I couldn’t help but wonder: Did I struggle with Lessons in Chemistry in part because I was already somewhat biased against it since it was on that damn table where everyone could gawk at it? It’s possible. In addition to the potential “Nirvana effect,” I’ll confess that my wife read the book right before me and didn’t really enjoy it. She found the main character overly quirky, and I know that I carried her opinion into my reading. I found myself thinking, yeah, she is overly quirky! If I’d been stranded on a desert island and Lessons in Chemistry had washed up on shore, would I have felt differently? Maybe. I’d say even probably. I might have loved it.
Hmm.
All this makes me wonder about the way we consume art in the modern world, and how often the art we consume comes packaged in pre-conceived notions. Whether it’s the blessing or curse of the critical establishment, or your friend or work colleagues telling you “you have to ________ this!” we hardly ever experience art (book, film, TV show) in a pure state. Where it’s just us and the thing. Almost always, by the time we crack the book spine or push play, our mind is already clouded with expectations and ideas not only about what the thing is, but how we should feel about it. Of course, this is not wholly unique to the Internet age. I’m sure that in 1867, there was a Russian merchant named Boris who loved the new book he just read and started telling everyone who wandered into his shop, “you HAVE to read War and Peace, it’s so good!” Ultimately, I’m not sure if there’s any way around this, but I do wonder how often we stop to think about it, and how it affects our enjoyment and feelings.
Lest we forget, not liking a book is totally normal. Some readers have really disliked my own work. There are some harsh 2-star reviews of my debut novel, Blowin’ My Mind Like a Summer Breeze, on Goodreads. I didn’t like reading these reviews, and I don’t agree with them, but I don’t fault those people for not liking my book.
All to say that if you’ve ever had the kind of experience with that book like the one I’m describing, I feel you. And I suspect you’re not only in good, but vast, company.
As I was writing this post, I thought a lot about whether or not I should name Lessons in Chemistry as the book I had in mind for the phenomenon that inspired it. And for a while, this post existed without the book named at all because I felt bad criticizing another author’s work on this platform. But in the end, I decided it felt disingenuous not to put a face (or at least a book cover) to this topic, especially since I hadn’t hated the book, only felt so-so about it. I also felt confident that the author, Bonnie Garmus, would probably understand where I was coming from.
I’m sure the same thing has happened to her a million times.
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