A Measured Evaluation

D.G. Myers gives us a nice list of the best books of the decade.  It is only a list, so there isn't much in the way of explanation; however, the site is deep and though I haven't searched thoroughly, I suspect that many of the works on the list are treated in greater depth in individual posts.

Places of variance--I was disappointed to note that Russo's Empire Falls ranked so highly in his evaluation of works--but then de gustibus non est disputandum.  Likewise with The Dying Animal; I could see nothing that would rank this work with the timeless--but there I'll admit my own fault--Roth's brilliance often eludes me. And finally the less said of the vastly overhyped Let the Great World Spin, the better; I've rarely encountered a less readable, less interesting, less linguistically diverting work receiving so much praise.  Again, I always must point out that the fault may not lie with the author but may rest solely with me--nevertheless, I've gotten tired enough of seeing it hyped that I'm now putting out warning flags to those interested.

Places of concurrence: William Trevor's Love and Summer.  What fascinates me about this book is that I recognize its quality, I know how well it is written, I applaud its structural integrity, I admire the language. But in point of fact, I don't like the book very much--least of all of his books that I have read.  I don't think you need like a book to recognize that it is truly well-written.  In this particular case, I'm not part of the intended audience--it's ambiance misses me entirely.  And that, Harold Bloom would remind me, is a mark of my deficiency--the work has read me and found me wanting.  I'm okay with that.  A great many works and/or people have expressed similar opinions in my lifetime.

Nevertheless, whatever its merits, Mr. Myers have given this more thought and more consideration than I have done or am ever likely to do and he gives us a list to react to and to add to our own vastly inflated lists of things to read.  There are many titles of interest, and given that some of them have had time to age and mellow, there is now more distance to allow for more objective evaluation.

But I'm still wondering where our Joyce, Tolstoy, and Shakespeare are hiding out--because I don't find them in these lists.  I wonder if we've forgotten (except for William Trevor) how to universalize the particular, or, more likely, I've greater immunity to its charms in the postmodern age.