Canon

This is the infamous blog post. The Big One. I'm not sure how many of you will find this interesting, but this has been occupying my thoughts lately, so I am going to burden you with my musings.

I read. A lot. I read both for school and for pleasure, and often for both simultaneously. Sometimes, I read thick, deep literature that hurts your brain after a while, and sometimes I read simple, insignificant 20-minute skims just for an escape. A few of the books I've read lately are Henry James' Washington Square, Edgar Rice Burroughs' Tarzan, and Becca Wilhite's Bright Blue Miracle.

We can arrange these works on a scale: James, one one end, is "Literature" (with a capital L, spoken in a British accent). This kind of work is the main course: verbal nourishment. Wilhite, on the other end, is what we call "book candy" - enjoyable, perhaps, but unsatisfying and nausea-inducing in large quantities. Burroughs, somewhere in the middle, is a cheeseburger. It tastes good and appeals to many, but it lacks something vital.

Henry James is a master. In Washington Square, every word counts. Every nuance carries meaning, and often we understand something that he never says outright. We don't even realize that we understand it until asked. We see inside the characters' minds, but only when he wants us to. Some things he hides. He makes us see things that aren't there. He distracts us from the real truth until the end, when finally our eyes snap open and the light floods in. We learn from James what a true artists can do with words. Reading his novel was like discovering buried treasure.

Becca Wilhite is a nice lady, I'm sure. She is probably well-read and educated. And I'll admit that there were several truly clever lines in her book. But it took me half an hour to read all 200 pages. I mean, really. The number of words weren't the issue - there was just nothing to get. There wasn't anything to the book other than the story - and even that left something to be desired. My main problem with it was that every character was the same. They all had the same sarcastic personality. They were all the author. One of the marks of a good storyteller is their ability to create characters that are distinct and believable. While it was obvious that Wilhite tried, she fell short.

Tarzan is another matter altogether. For readers of our age, the elevated language gives the sense that we are reading something classic and sophisticated, but it's important to remember that its style fit right in with the works of its time; in that sense, it was nothing unusual. The novel is not a great work of literature. It has no semblance of subtlety. It's language is blunt and awkward and often cliche to the point of ridiculousness. But whatever his other failings, Burroughs was a master storyteller. Tarzan was wildy popular in its day. It was a sensation. Its popularity was such that it has since entered our culture's legends, has been retold and re-imagined in dozens of mediums. Most people don't even realize the story originated in a novel. And for that reason, if nothing else, Tarzan is worth reading.

There is a place in the study of literature for all of these. We can appreciate truly great writing, but also appreciate that not everyone appreciates it. We can study that which the greater populace does appreciate, and theorize why that may be. Literature fascinates me for these reasons. It constantly has to be re-evaluated. What makes a work great? Who is qualified to decide? Why do we place such importance on certain themes and conventions? Why do particular works strike chords with so many readers? We question and assess, and much of the old canon falls, new canon is added or rediscovered, and the greatest works remain on their pedestal to be studied for another generation. I love literature because it tells humanity who we are and where we have been - even the silliest novels add something. It's the story of human creativity, and it never stops.