A Spontaneous Rant (My Apologies in Advance)

According to my daily New York Times “Today’s Headlines” email, Oprah has just announced the next selection for her book club. “After saying the ‘underlying message’ of a memoir was more important than its truth,” read the brief summary below the headline, “Oprah Winfrey announced her next selection is [Elie Wiesel’s] ‘Night.’” I had two immediate thoughts. First, I wondered if the authenticity of Wiesel’s account had ever been in question—if so, I hadn’t known this when I read the book in the first place and it was vaguely disappointing to think that maybe my perceptions of the book had been founded upon mistaken assumptions. Of course, I also immediately realized that Oprah’s statement might simply have been referring to the recent scandal within literary circles regarding A Million Little Pieces, and that the statement may have been in defense of James Frey and the entire genre rather than Night itself. I didn’t bother to click on the hyperlink and read further to find out because I had better things to do with my time (yeah – like writing on my blog), but I felt very proud of myself for being so in tune with major issues in literary (and political and scientific) circles simply by virtue of a few days of scanning headlines conveniently emailed to my Yahoo! account.

That, however, is not the subject of this blog entry. Rather, I’d like to talk about my second immediate thought which was that I wished Oprah would just stop adding books to her book club list. I have no good reason for feeling so strongly about this. In fact, it ought to be a good thing that she manages to get people to read good books that they might otherwise overlook. But I also know I’m not alone in resenting her ostentatious intrusion into the book world. I’ve discussed this with my brother and with at least a couple friends and we have all agreed that a book plastered with an “Oprah’s Book Club” sticker is an immediate turn-off.

I guess part of my resentment stems from the fact that the very idea (and popularity) of her book club seems to take reading out of the hands of the reader. In my mind reading is a very personal act, and this involves not just reading itself but browsing the bookstore and skimming first chapters in the library and carefully (or spontaneously) choosing a book that I want to read. And what I think and feel when I read that book, or even the occasional choice to put it down without ever finishing, are equally personal. When I Oprah’s Book Club enthusiasts, I think about people who have allowed their reading experience to be placed under the responsibility of someone else. “Ah ha!” they think as they read their own “Today’s Headlines” email (or maybe Oprah’s Book Club has its own mailing list?). “I know what I’m reading this month!” And then, since Oprah chose it, they already know in advance that they’re going to like the book and that it will be quality literature and quite possibly change their lives.

I have, of course, never actually met someone like this. And I also realize that, no matter what I may think, my own reading is not entirely personal, either—I pay attention to book reviews and bestseller lists and, especially, recommendations from trusted friends and family, and occasionally my opinions about books are heavily influenced by someone else’s opinion. And I have nothing personal against Oprah. After all, she took up running well into adulthood and ran her first marathon in four hours and even if she had a personal trainer to help her along the way, I can at least respect her for that. (The running, I mean, not the personal trainer.) And if she had an atrocious taste in books then her book club would be inexcusable, but she doesn’t. I actually quite like some of the books on her list.

That, however, is part of the problem. I am most resentful of Oprah’s Book Club when she chooses books I have already read and loved. It’s that resistance to bandwagon syndrome that I think many of us feel. If I like what everyone else likes, I want to somehow be able to say that I liked it first, to make it clear that I don’t like it because everyone else likes it. If I thought One Hundred Years of Solitude was an amazing book, I don’t want to tell that to someone and have them respond, “Oh yes, that’s in Oprah’s Book Club, isn’t it?” I have rarely felt so frustrated as when Oprah chose Cry the Beloved Country for her book club selection. Up until then that book was my secret literary treasure, one of my two favorite books of all time that few people had heard of and even fewer had actually read. It was an incredibly personal read, a book that swept me in and then left me in tears at the end, the kind of book that required me to sit alone in silence for some period of time after reading the final page. When I walked into the BYU Bookstore one day and saw the book on display with a gold Oprah’s Book Club sticker on the front I felt like the book had left my control, had been thrown out to masses who could not appreciate the real and intimate power of its writing and its message, rather than spreading slowly and deliberately among close friends as it should.

I am not particularly attached to Night. I read it and I’m glad I did and I see nothing wrong with getting it out to the world, especially since it’s reasonably well-known as it is. But if there’s someone out there who feels about Night as I do about Cry the Beloved Country, then I am well-inclined to harbor resentment towards Oprah (or her book club—I ought not to feel negative feelings toward someone I don’t know personally) for their sake.

Whew. Now that I’ve gotten that out of my system (and now that I’ve been sitting at my computer for far longer than I intended) I will close my email and put aside my thoughts about Oprah and get back to what I’m really supposed to be doing right now.