Why do we say we like the books we don’t like?
October 2, 2015
I KNOW WHY we read books.
But how do we judge books?
What causes us to like books even if we don’t like them?
Is it the author?
Is it the writing?
Or are we the victims of our own prejudices, the one we don’t know we have.
I fear that we often like certain books for the same reason we like certain pieces of art.
Critics have decreed them to be great, and we think we are supposed to like them.
In Houston, we walked past Barnett Newman’s famed steel sculpture, Broken Obelisk, and into the inner sanctum of a chapel as stark, as mysterious, as intriguing as the complex mind of artist Mark Rothko.
It is a tranquil and meditative environment inspired by the abstruse mural canvases of the Russian-born Rothko, an abstract impressionist who believed that his art could free the unconscious energies previously liberated by mythological images, symbols, and rituals.
He considered himself a mythmaker and proclaimed: “The exhilarated tragic experience is, for me, the only source of art.”
The Chapel is overwhelming in its starkness and emptiness.
The paintings are there, dark and foreboding. It is as though our eyes were having difficulty trying to find substance and a sense of meaning in.
They were, as some said, “impenetrable fortresses of color.”
I looked hard. I didn’t see anything at all.
Mark Rothko devoted the last six years of his life to the ultimate creation of the Chapel.
He insisted that the building feature a central cupola like the one in his New York Studio.
He wanted others to view his great murals with the same light he had seen while producing his massive and imposing visions of darkness.
In 1966, Rothko wrote the de Menils: “The magnitude, on every level of experience and meaning, of the task in which you have involved me, exceeds all my preconceptions. And it is teaching me to extend myself beyond what I thought was possible for me. For this, I thank you.”
Four years later, on a cold February day, Mark Rothko sat down in the studio where he had completed his last work and slashed his wrists.
No one knows why.
He died with his market value climbing and 798 paintings in his studio.
Dominique de Menil said of Rothko’s work: “It seems that the paintings he did during the last ten years were a sort of preparation for the chapel. As he worked on the Chapel, which was the greatest adventure of his life, his colors became darker and darker, as if he were bringing us on the threshold of transcendence: the mystery of the cosmos, the tragic mystery of our perishable condition The silence of God, the unbearable silence of God.”
I turned to the lady beside me, a patron of the arts. “Are you sure this is art?” I asked.
“It’s magnificent,” she said.
“I only see walls painted black,” I said.
“Look harder,” she said.
“Now what do you see?” she asked.
“Walls painted black,” I said.
She sighed. Patrons of the art sigh a lot.
“The paintings are filled with figures,” she said.
They must be hidden behind the shadows.
“And faces,” she said.
I guess their eyes were shut. I felt as though mine were.
“See the crosses?” she said.
“No, ma ‘am.”
“Look over at that one,” she said.
“The doves are flying.”
The doves must have been flying at night.
I was confused.
She was enthralled.
“What makes these paintings so great?” I asked.
“Mark Rothko painted them.”
“And that’s all?”
“Mark Rothko was brilliant,” she said.
Everyone can’t be wrong. The chapel is always filled with patrons of the arts.
I didn’t get it at all.
I believe that some books sell and some authors keep selling because we are led to believe these select few writers are great storytellers and their books deserve to be bestsellers.
It’s heresy to believe otherwise.
I don’t like all of the books.
I don’t like all of the authors.
So why do I feel guilty? So why would any of us feel guilty?
Personally, I believe a good story well told should stand on its own merit no matter who wrote it.
Just because a critic or a reviewer didn’t like doesn’t mean I won’t.