a comfort-reading bereavement
Oct. 31st, 2019 07:59 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
callunavWhen I first discovered Dick Francis's books as an adolescent, I found them exciting. I read everything my library had and waited eagerly for new releases. I didn't like all of his books equally, but there were very few I didn't like at all. I even wrote to him, although I was 16 or 17 at the time and it was less fanmail than it was a complaint that I felt his characters drank too much, especially for jockeys trying to watch their weight.
Since then, rereading his books has been comfort-reading, and the ones I liked best, I have reread to the point where, on any given sentence, if I had closed my eyes, I would have had a very good guess how the next one started.
And now, alas, after my recent bout of rereading, I'm discovering that I can't anymore. Things I noticed before but was able to set aside - primarily what now feels like pervasive self-satisfied/self-righteous conservatism with the majority's peculiar conviction that it is being oppressed by almost any minority that gets attention - keep thrusting themselves to the forefront and refusing to be ignored, spoiling my ability to wallow.
Alas. Farewell. We had a long and close - albeit 100% one-sided - friendship, but we have grown apart. Or, I have grown apart, since the books are static and the author is no more. (And his son does not count. At least his father could write. Or his father and mother in a largely unacknowledged collaboration could, anyway.)
The caveats to this wake do seem to keep adding up.
---
As always, when I criticize a book or an author, I am quite content to speak only for myself. I am very happy for other people to enjoy books I cannot; I'm only sorry that I no longer seem to be one of them. Reading is highly individual, and although I don't dismiss authorial intent, I do think it's true that every reader invents the book in the act of reading it, and reads a very slightly different book from that read by anyone else. If you like Dick Francis's books and expect/intend to go on liking them, I think that's awesome. I still cherish the memory of what that enthusiastic fandom was for me for decades. If you like Felix Francis's books, I'm vaguely baffled but still very happy for you.
Since then, rereading his books has been comfort-reading, and the ones I liked best, I have reread to the point where, on any given sentence, if I had closed my eyes, I would have had a very good guess how the next one started.
And now, alas, after my recent bout of rereading, I'm discovering that I can't anymore. Things I noticed before but was able to set aside - primarily what now feels like pervasive self-satisfied/self-righteous conservatism with the majority's peculiar conviction that it is being oppressed by almost any minority that gets attention - keep thrusting themselves to the forefront and refusing to be ignored, spoiling my ability to wallow.
Alas. Farewell. We had a long and close - albeit 100% one-sided - friendship, but we have grown apart. Or, I have grown apart, since the books are static and the author is no more. (And his son does not count. At least his father could write. Or his father and mother in a largely unacknowledged collaboration could, anyway.)
The caveats to this wake do seem to keep adding up.
---
As always, when I criticize a book or an author, I am quite content to speak only for myself. I am very happy for other people to enjoy books I cannot; I'm only sorry that I no longer seem to be one of them. Reading is highly individual, and although I don't dismiss authorial intent, I do think it's true that every reader invents the book in the act of reading it, and reads a very slightly different book from that read by anyone else. If you like Dick Francis's books and expect/intend to go on liking them, I think that's awesome. I still cherish the memory of what that enthusiastic fandom was for me for decades. If you like Felix Francis's books, I'm vaguely baffled but still very happy for you.
no subject
Date: 2019-10-31 07:05 pm (UTC)I eventually discovered Nevada Barr's mysteries, which also have a lot of environmental stuff and many great appreciations of nature in them, along with suspense, humor, and convoluted plots, but less obnoxiousness. I wonder if there is some kind of analogue to Dick Francis's books somewhere that would provide the same engagement or comfort without the bad parts. It's so individual, though. My mom also misses being able to read MacDonald, but while she loves Barr, she doesn't find those books a substitute at all.
P.
P.