If you were to do a
simple search for “great books,” or “most famous books,” or “best books”
online, each individual category would yield all manner of material. “One
Hundred Best Novels,” “Fifty Books You Should Read Before You Die,” and so on,
is subject to the whims of those who compile them. Yet I’ve never spotted a
list based exclusively on the celebration of a superb prose style. Guess I’ll
have to put together that list myself one of these days.
Over
the course of my own reading career, I’ve discovered that the best books are
comparable to good medicine – perhaps difficult for some to get through but beneficial
to the mind or the soul. Others are literary cheap thrills, not particularly
great but guaranteed to amuse, what Bertie Wooster’s valet Jeeves would term
“light but attractive reading.” (I was recently informed that employing the parlance
of today would render this sort of book ‘a beach read.’)
Everyone
is partial. I’m no exception. As a starting point, as I’ve said elsewhere, even
tons of mediocre paperbacks beat some of the best television and film. Of
course, my love affair with words in general influences my views on the matter.
I’m more likely to read garbage if only for the purposes of learning what not
to do when I write. I’m also drawn to the forbidden stuff, books that were once
banned or are still regarded as either taboo or perverse or both. This is
partly due to what books can achieve – challenging our assumptions, exposing us
to issues or ideas none of us would consider otherwise, or, as Sol Stein wrote,
and I’m paraphrasing here, dealing with subjects we’d never see entertained in
any other media, important things, controversial things, things that require
more exploration than a mere sound bite can do justice.
Curiously,
I’ll read nearly all manner of material, in any genre. Yet when it comes to
film, because I don’t fancy gore, I avoid horror. I don’t mind reading horror,
but I wouldn’t watch the stuff if you paid me. You’ll never find me watching a
romantic comedy, either. Yet I read romance. I’ve avoided most films in the
fantasy and science fiction genre as well, primarily because such subject
matter is treated so poorly. Yet I read more than my fair share of same.
I
say all that to prepare you for this. Some books rub me the wrong way. I
immediately dismiss any list that includes Hemingway, for example. His writing has
always bored me. Not the subject matter but rather the unfolding of it. Those
who hail William Faulkner’s travesty of a novel The Sound and the Fury might as well sell snake oil as far as I’m concerned.
I hated that novel. An absolute mess. The same could be said for Miller’s Tropic of Cancer. That story nauseated
me. And while I finished it (you can read my review of it here), I couldn’t get
past ten pages of Smith’s A Tree Grows in
Brooklyn because the writing style reminded me of grade school. See Spot
run. See Jill swing. See Jack drown himself in the sea. I couldn’t stomach
Plaith’s The Bell Jar for the same
reason. Call me a jerk, a snob, an ass, I don’t care. Though I’ll usually read
and finish it, I prefer prose a bit more sophisticated.
In
short, I’m not easily fooled by book lists. I know what I like and why. That
said, I still depend on book lists as a guide. One reason is that such lists,
for all their faults and bias, have exposed me to certain authors I never
would’ve discovered otherwise, subject matter and genres to which I might not
have been introduced.
Suppose
you’re a fan of film. Further suppose you’re a film critic who watches anything
and everything because it’s your job. Now consider how this might make you,
over time, more discriminate, more particular about what qualifies as quality
filmmaking. Isn’t it safe to say you’d become a bit more analytical, slightly
harsher in your criticism, more demanding?
The
same holds true for avid readers. Expose yourself to enough high-quality prose,
storytelling chops, and skillful wordsmiths and it’ll take more than mere
mediocrity to impress you. (There are exceptions. One particular film critic who
shall remain nameless evidently loves film so much that once he has pointed out
all the film’s flaws and I’m ready to give it an F based on his own critique, I’m
bewildered when he concludes by giving the film in question a B- or a C.)
With
that in mind, when I saw The Canterbury
Tales on a few of these lists, I decided to set aside my high school
memories (portions of the book were required reading) and give the book an
honest try. I’m glad I did. Not only is The
Canterbury Tales the best book of verse I’ve read; it’s one of the best
books of both verse and prose.
Chaucer
is a master. His knowledge of meter, subject matter, varying diction based on
the specific narrator (each character offers a tale), lyricism, not to mention
his staggering versatility in approach and mood, is stellar. Setting aside the
mechanics, the themes, plots, events, and characters comprising his poems (which
are varied and at times hypnotic), the author’s accomplishment in delivery is nothing
short of mesmerizing.
Here
you’ll find content ranging from the reverential and glorious to the
scatological and perverse. The stories are told with both unflinching and engrossing
mastery.
Yes.
It’s that good. Five out of five stars. Rated R.
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