Now, I have no objection to Haruki Murakami, in fact what I've read of his I've liked a great deal, which, as I came to the books determined to dislike them (when approval is so unanimous...come on, you used to be an indie kid, you know what I mean) came as a pleasant surprise. But I nearly didn't read the books at all.
Now, I don't know about you, but when I walk into a bookshop I am in one of two modes. I either know already what I'm looking to buy or I'm browsing. Generally it's the former, our bookshop here tries manfully but factors of space discount the more arcane of my tastes, but on those occasions of the latter then I'm being subconsciously spurred on by a number of things; friend's half-remembered recommendations, aged reviews, my own vague recollections of the author or sometimes just plain curiosity.
The one thing which does not spur me on, which in fact repulses me (as was the case with the Murakami), are the edited higlights of reviews that publishers see fit to plaster otherwise perfectly attractive with. Now, don't get me wrong, I have nothing against book reviews, more than once a favourable notice from a trusted source has propelled me towards something I otherwise wouldn't have picked up. If a book I was planning to buy gets slated however meh, I'll take my chances anyway, thanks. The reviews themselves often make for entertaining reading.
IN THEIR ENTIRETY
The fifteen or so words of gushing hyperbole that the publishers extract, on the other hand make the reviewers sound like excitable simpletons, incapable of any insight beyond the following: "haunting" "wise" "dream-like" "sensual" "poetic". Morons words, words which lay themselves open to ridicule. Hyperbole makes fools of us all, it leaves no room for interpretation. An example from The New York Times
"This wise and beautiful book is full of hidden truths"
How the hell do you know if they're hidden? Unless you, the reviewer, and by implication you, the purchaser and reader are just as wise, able to tease out the meaning. I'm all in favour of engaging with the text, and, by extension, the author, what I object to is being told. What I object to is the publishers shouting at me from the book's back. I'm a reasonably intelligent guy, and call me contrary but I like to make my own mind up about things. So Vintage books, be warned, the next time I see "an intimate, dream-like evocation" I'm torching the fucking shop.
Now, I don't know about you, but when I walk into a bookshop I am in one of two modes. I either know already what I'm looking to buy or I'm browsing. Generally it's the former, our bookshop here tries manfully but factors of space discount the more arcane of my tastes, but on those occasions of the latter then I'm being subconsciously spurred on by a number of things; friend's half-remembered recommendations, aged reviews, my own vague recollections of the author or sometimes just plain curiosity.
The one thing which does not spur me on, which in fact repulses me (as was the case with the Murakami), are the edited higlights of reviews that publishers see fit to plaster otherwise perfectly attractive with. Now, don't get me wrong, I have nothing against book reviews, more than once a favourable notice from a trusted source has propelled me towards something I otherwise wouldn't have picked up. If a book I was planning to buy gets slated however meh, I'll take my chances anyway, thanks. The reviews themselves often make for entertaining reading.
IN THEIR ENTIRETY
The fifteen or so words of gushing hyperbole that the publishers extract, on the other hand make the reviewers sound like excitable simpletons, incapable of any insight beyond the following: "haunting" "wise" "dream-like" "sensual" "poetic". Morons words, words which lay themselves open to ridicule. Hyperbole makes fools of us all, it leaves no room for interpretation. An example from The New York Times
"This wise and beautiful book is full of hidden truths"
How the hell do you know if they're hidden? Unless you, the reviewer, and by implication you, the purchaser and reader are just as wise, able to tease out the meaning. I'm all in favour of engaging with the text, and, by extension, the author, what I object to is being told. What I object to is the publishers shouting at me from the book's back. I'm a reasonably intelligent guy, and call me contrary but I like to make my own mind up about things. So Vintage books, be warned, the next time I see "an intimate, dream-like evocation" I'm torching the fucking shop.
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