James Joyce and the Russians

I recently read The Cherry Orchard by Anton Chekhov. Being a director and a playwright, I’ve felt a bit of shame at my ignorance of this classic playwright and his works. I have actually seen this particular work of his performed . . . although I don’t remember anything about it (other than the fabulous set designed by my friend Alfy, which was the reason for my attendance). So, I ordered a copy of the play with an Amazon gift card I got at the end of the school year.

And I wasn’t impressed.

I felt the same way when I finished a long-drawn-out reading of Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina this summer. I will say that I at least knew what was going on most of the time in that novel; the play I had a hard time following at all. I appreciated the tragedy of Anna’s end and the joy of Levin’s enlightenment . . . but the journey to get to those moments was laborious.

The Brothers Karamazov had a similar effect on me. Yay for the occasional glorious mountaintops . . . ugh for the long, winding path I had to take to get there.

I will admit to wondering, at some points in the course of my reading these pieces, if perhaps I have overestimated my intelligence. People RAVE about these works, y’all. I mean, they are undisputed classics! What’s wrong with me? What am I missing here?? I’m smart – I’m a word person – I’m a voracious reader and a writer myself. Why are these books not clicking with me?

Perhaps it’s Russian literature. A good friend (and fellow reader/writer) commiserated with me about Tolstoy and Dostoyevsky and all the long Russian names – not to mention the fact that every character seems to go by not one, but three or four different long Russian names. There is also the fact that all these works have central themes and motifs related to Russian culture and history, about which I know very little. So maybe that’s it. It’s the Russians. I don’t relate to Russians.

But then a Facebook friend posted something about Ulysses, by the non-Russian Irish novelist James Joyce.

Oh, Lord have mercy – THAT book.

I had to read Ulysses in college. Similar to the novels mentioned earlier, it is a 750-page tome. My literature professor sat at the table to lead our discussion of this so-called masterpiece with TWO reference books beside her that were specifically devoted to understanding this particular novel . . . and that were both just as ridiculously fat as the book they strove to illuminate. Try as she might, she completely failed to inspire in me any appreciation for Joyce’s magnum opus. How in the name of all good things can a book be considered well-written if it requires the help of two other books just as outrageously long to understand the thing at all?

I’m not going to say that the people out there calling these works great are just trying to look smarter than the rest of us. I’m not going to call them pretentious. That would be dishonoring to them and would reflect badly on me, so I’m not going to say it. (Although you’ll notice that I’m certainly implying the possibility . . .)

I’m just going to note that taste in literature seems to be similar to taste in food. It’s affected by your life experiences. If you’ve grown up with a lot of exposure to hot sauce or to socialist rants, they will feel comfortable and rest easy on your taste buds. Our intellectual and gustatory palates are both developed through our experiences – and there is great value to being exposed to a lot of different flavors, forms, and fashions in the course of a lifetime.

However, while some foods are certainly more nutritious than others, God made ALL food for our enjoyment. So, read with discretion, but by all means, read whatever gives you pleasure, folks. Even the long-winded Russian stuff, I suppose.