Disgrace
Why is Disgrace a great novel?
Such a tough question to answer. I would always like to think that great novels share some things in common…usually. Great characters, great plot, and great –insert not-so-clearly-defined attribute of choice here–. This last bit depends on the person who bothers to care whether or not any of the novels he reads is “great” in the first place. Most people don’t do this, and that’s great too.
I’m not one of these people. I’ve been building this esoteric totem pole of literary greatness in my head ever since I threw my beat up paperback edition of Dostoevsky’s The Possessed against the wall after learning about the tragic fate of Nicolai Stravrogin. Those Russians’ll do that to ya.
OK. I’m weird. But for some reason I actually care about formulating this kind of pecking order – all for the benefit of myself and myself alone. And, of course, you, dear reader.
Don’t feel sorry for me. Instead, listen to what I have to say. And please disagree. There really is truly nothing more I like in this world is for someone to say to me, “You’re wrong, Speck. And let me show you why!”
You hear that sound? It’s the sound of a gauntlet crashing to a stone floor. Beautiful.
Anyway, back to Disgrace, the Pulitzer Prize winning novel 2003 by JM Coetzee. Go here if you need a precursor to what I am about to serve up for you. And whatever you do, do NOT click the Read More link below if you have not already read this magnificent little novel. I am brutal with spoilers. You have been warned.
Modern Lit and Me
My typical mantra when it comes to modern literature is that it usually disappoints. And by “modern” I mean anything published during or after 1960. Of course, that doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy modern literature. I’ve posted about recently published novels I’ve enjoyed here and here. There are others as well, of course. It’s just that with modern novels I tend to wrap my mind around them pretty easily and always find much to criticize. Upon reflection, the characters and situations seem to take a backseat to style of some sort, whether it’s structure, prose, or attitude. And to me, that’s cheap. Either that, or I have a blind spot where familiarity breeds contempt, and modern fiction just doesn’t do it for me for that reason.
Keep in mind I’m talking only about literary fiction, as opposed to genre or historical fiction. My favorite novels fall this category: Moby Dick, The Possessed, Huck Finn, The Secret Agent, The Plague. Pretty much the A-list from your high school AP lit and college survey classes. So finding the next great literary novel is a real holy grail for me. The search and its inevitable disappointments evoke a loneliness as well, making me feel, as Brian Wilson once sang, “I guess I just wasn’t made for these times.”
Why do I react more strongly to-and feel closer too-long-winded Russian, English, or French novels from the 19th century than I do to the supposedly great works of today? It’s a question I’ve been struggling with for fifteen years. I mean, I don’t want to be a curmudgeon. I don’t want to live in the past. And I certainly don’t wear the burden of constant disappointment like a badge of honor. But when I meet someone who raves on and on about a fashionable literary novel that I know to be a piece of bombastic, pretentious hackwork, well, I can never take that person’s literary tastes seriously.
Sounds awful, doesn’t it?