(Woman Reading : Kuniyoshi Utagawa)
A recent post, a joint effort between reader Narayan Acharya and me, led fellow blogger Namit Arora to write the following comment on our blog.
Ruchira, I noticed once again your approach to book reviews where you present a mostly descriptive overview about the story/plot/setting, even how others might react to it, but stay away from saying what *you* thought was really great about it, what moved you, what really sucked, etc. The review is still a good read – don't get me wrong - but it is a curious choice and I remain puzzled why an otherwise opinionated woman should consciously prefer such a bland middle ground when reviewing novels. (Contrast that with Narayan's approach. It's clear the book shook up the man to the core, prompting him to even demand that Ghosh get a life! :-)
Namit draws attention to Narayan's impassioned critique of the author's style and my own descriptive plot driven approach to the review of the same novel, Sea of Poppies by Amitav Ghosh. In response to Namit's query I will attempt to explain to our readers why my book reviews come across more as précis style presentations than literary criticisms.
Although an avid reader from early childhood, I have never been a terribly literary person. I treat books very much like meals – to be examined, consumed, deriving whatever nutrition they offer and moving on. Some are relished like gourmet treats, some approached with playful or cautious interest and others summarily rejected after the first bite. No matter how deep an imprint a book leaves on my memory and my psyche, I feel little need to dwell too long on it or to connect it to a past or future reading experience in any formally meaningful way. Although I do recall with precision how a very good book managed to touch me, I don't feel compelled to recount the details of those feelings to others who may or may not agree with my assessment. Reading seems like a very private enjoyment. Therefore the lack of ardor in public.
Why don't I then write "negative" book reviews? Simple – I don't read too many bad books. More often than not, after the quality of the style, narrative and subject matter has been established in the first fifty or so pages, I rarely ever continue to read a book that I do not like. My mother, a student of literature, who had the infinite patience (and training) to plod through tedious and rotten writings (cursing all the way), used to wonder about my ability to throw aside a book that I had "already begun." Fortunately, as a science student, literature for me has always been a pursuit of pleasure, not a requirement. I therefore never feel the need to labor through a book or author that puts me off. (In the past decade though, since joining my beloved neighborhood book club, where the choice of reading material is a democratic process, I have had to endure several literary embarrassments.)
When I began blogging, I knew for sure that I would be writing about books and authors. I made a conscious decision to write only about books that I myself like and would want my readers to enjoy. No negative criticism was to sully the pages of the blog (for that I had politics and politicians) and take up precious time and space. Not that I don't enjoy reading negative reviews and wouldn't be adept at writing one. I do believe that it is easier to shred something we don't like to ribbons than to admire the admirable. Some of the liveliest sessions of our monthly book club meetings occur when we have read a particularly impossible piece of crap and the ladies come armed with choice words of denigration. But I decided to refrain from that practice in public. Possessing a sharp tongue, I feared that I may flaunt my sarcasm and capacity for snark too well. Also, if I don't want our visitors to read a particular book, why bring it up? In other words, what I write here on A.B. are really book recommendations rather than reviews in the strict sense of the word. Hence the descriptive overview of the story/plot/setting which if intriguing enough, a reader will check out for him/herself.
Take the review of the Sea of Poppies for example. I tell enough (with necessary warnings) that if the readers wants to find out more, they will seek the book out or as Namit did, will give it a pass. And why is my own part of the review laconic compared to Narayan's passionate love-hate outpourings? Well, for one, although I very much liked Amitav Ghosh's dense period piece, I didn't absolutely love the book. I learnt a number of things I didn't know before but being quite familiar with the politics and culture of 19th century India, there were not many surprises either. I didn't feel that either the literary effort or the history lesson deserved too many superlatives. As for the most intriguing aspect of the novel, the unusual application of language, with my strong grasp of Hindi and Bengali (including their more archaic dialects), I found Ghosh's carefully laid out linguistic obstacle course quite easy to navigate. I did warn that others less familiar with the vernacular might find themselves climbing a wall. That's where Narayan came in with his excellent rant – taking up where the description ends and the head banging starts, turning the post into a genuine critical review.
Accidental Blogger 
9 responses to “Bland Book Reviews :-)”
hi,
wasn’t planning to read it…but you have intrigued me now so will try to lay my hands on this book.
Like your take on criticism…methodical and practical…like the you I imagine.
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Looking at a bunch of old reviews that I wrote, primarily for consumption by a panel of judges at the local library, it strikes me that there’s an art to writing reviews, which have to be precisely tailored to the requirements of the publication you are writing for. In a blog, you have the leeway to dwell on whatever you choose (as you have done, Ruchira). In a magazine, the emphasis may be on providing a suitable tease or enthusiastic blurb to drive book sales up, or skilfully ripping apart a well known author to add a controversy that drives the magazine’s sale numbers higher. Or it may just be a way of showing off the reviewer’s abtruse knowledge of the subject, rather than highlighting the book.
I wouldn’t think any less of a ‘bland’ review vs. a ‘passionate’ one, just consider whether it gives me enough information on whether I would take the trouble to get the book or not. As with films,sometimes the simplest reviews have pointed the way to the most satisfying reads, while hyperbolic accolades have often led to disappointed hopes, when faced with the actual prose.
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Hi Ruchira,
I think it’s definitely OK to be what you self-critically call “bland,” but what can just as easily be called “descriptive.” That’s a valuable service to provide to your readers — you’re giving a summary of what the book is like. It’s true that a definitive evaluative comment about the quality of the book is often helpful — but if you don’t feel comfortable making one for whatever reason, then it’s unnecessary. The New York Observer, where I’ve occasionally published reviews, wants a strong evaluative comment from the reviewer. In contrast, The New York Review of Books style of review is to print a lengthy summary of the issues discussed in a book, by a reviewer who is always a distinguished person in the given field — and there often is only an implied judgment of the quality of the book. In fact, the book under review sometimes feels secondary — and the NYRB is a must-read in my household. So I guess what I’m saying is keep it up! Your critical voice has to fit your personality.
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To compare my own book-review style (assume that I actually still read and review books, although law school has seriously gotten in the way the last couple years) — mine are (would be) generally shorter because I’m not good at descriptive writing, and as a result I do very little of it (readers wanting to know what a book is about can use “the Google” to look it up). If I could add that in, I probably would.
As a reader, what I really want to know is whether you liked the book, so I can extrapolate as to whether it’s worth reading for me. Comparisons (“You Shall Know Our Velocity!” reminded me of “On the Road,” in a good way) are helpful to the extent we have different preferences, although the need for this is obviated by the descriptive stuff that Ruchira does so well, which I don’t.
One point where I disagree is on the value of negative book reviews. Given that none of us are going to read a Grisham, what’s left is books that are receive good reviews from others or that start off well but fall apart. For example, I thought that Ian McEwan’s last book, “On Chesil Beach,” was pretty clearly not as good “Amsterdam,” “Saturday,” and “Atonement.” Not that it’s a bad book, and it’s probably still even worth reading, but I do think there’s some utility in offering the opinion that the reader should not expect another Booker-caliber work.
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Ruchira, you say you “treat books very much like a meal” but is that really true? Consider, for instance, your rousing, spicy, and mouthwatering endorsement of posto (which I heartily agree with) in a comment on the same Ghosh review, with yummy explanations of why you find it peerless and what delightful effect it has on you. I’m sure many AB readers immediately thought: mmm, how can I get my hands on some of Ruchira’s posto!
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Ruchira tried to remind me that I once made an offhand comment similar to Namit’s about her style, although I don’t recall doing so. Nevertheless, I agree with Namit; Ruchira’s emphasis on narrative sweep struck me, particularly juxtaposed with Narayan’s emphasis on language. My own inclination is toward the latter, inasmuch as I generally don’t care what or whom a book is about. (There are exceptions.) One of my favorite living novelists, whom I’ve probably already mentioned here at AB, is Anita Brookner. (Neat pun.) She tends to feature a female protagonist confronting, largely in solitude, a crisis of multiple dimensions: intellectual, emotional, romantic, professional. The focus is highly introspective. The protagonist will likely (1) travel to Europe from England to ponder her situation in a change of scenery, (2) consume an omelet with a glass of gin one morning (the one occasion when I more or less vividly imagine myself participating in the book’s goings-on, and in this respect I, like Ruchira, treat a novel like a meal), and (3) ultimately acknowledge an inevitable disappointment or an irretrievable loss. Done. You’ve just read all of Brookner’s novels. Which is why I keep coming back for more. No surprises, a very subtle drama, a placid pace. Why, then, read a second after the first?
Like Henry James, to whom Brookner is frequently compared–this is no great insight on my part–Brookner depicts a mind at work, consciously and unconsciously gauging her surroundings, accounting for her history and her desires, adapting to unwelcome change and conflict. She works this effect in part through the deployment of language at the level of the sentence, say, rather than in terms of broader concerns such as “description” (Brookner’s prose is neither florid nor spare) or “plot” (of which, as I’ve shown, there is very little). It is true that for James plot plays a bigger part, but it doesn’t distract from the attractive, sometimes marvelously elaborate crafting of a sentence that can represent–more than merely describe–a character’s cognitive or emotional trajectory. There are other plain differences between James and Brookner, but my point is that they at least share a degree of care for elegant or striking periods.
From book reviews I have no preference for any of the alternatives so far discussed here: the straightforward descriptive summary, the obsessive focus on language, a clear thumbs-up-or-down recommendation, or my own pseudo-critical blather. Having learned again to read by the likes of Derrida, De Man, Hillis Miller, Bloom, etc., I read reviews pretty much as a somewhat indistinct subset of literature itself, neither for nor against it. But aren’t reviews supposed to respond to their nominal subject works? Yes, but that’s the easiest part. No writing can help but respond to another. I like reviews that, nevertheless, manage to stand on their own in some valiant way. I have almost no utilitarian expectations of the “Well, should I or should I not bother to read this book?” sort. Even bad writing, for me, isn’t a waste of time to read. Ruchira will attribute this disposition to my not being a “science student,” yet I share with her the easy disregard for books whose first eighty or 125 pages perplex me. (DeLillo’s Underworld, anybody?)
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Another approach: just pretend that every sentence that you write is actually something you’re saying directly to Thomas Friedman. Mummy power!
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I’ve just stumbled across New Yorker‘s tribute to Updike, who “had ideas about what book reviewing should be.” The core:
There follows a “vaguer sixth,” reminding the reviewer to focus on the book. It concludes with a remark worthy of Ruchira: “The communion between reviewer and his public is based upon the presumption of certain possible joys of reading, and all our discriminations should curve toward that end.”
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Thomas Friedman has slipped a step down further into incoherence and irrelevance. Going beyond addressing his own frequent “open letters” to various world leaders, he has now taken to composing open letters on behalf of others. What could I or any other reader/reviewer tell this moron?
Actually, I am rather hands off when it comes to convincing others of anything related to taste. I am just very opinionated about what I myself like and dislike.
Come to think of it, although an enthusiastic food lover, I am not very persuasive about what someone else should eat either. Even when I relish something truly delectable, I rarely try to convince others if they show reluctance. No wonder then that after nearly thirty four years of marriage, I haven’t been able to get my husband to once try “maachh-bhaat” (Bengali fish curry and rice), by far my favorite delicacy which I devour before him with gusto while he digs into something else.
Thanks everyone for chiming in with your opinions. They were all very illuminating. And by the way Namit, thanks for asking the question that resulted in this meta-review. I agree that my “reviews” could do with a few more succinctly expressed opinions. But as with my drawings, I tend to take a minimalistic approach when it comes to my feelings about books. And again, Namit may be right. It could have something to do with my having been a teacher. “Never indoctrinate” was one of my guiding pedagogic principles.
Perhaps I will some day try and take a crack at writing at least one review of the kind that Namit has challenged me to do. No it won’t be Lolita. It won’t be The Master and Margarita (haven’t read Crime and Punishment). And yes indeed, it really wasn’t love in the time of cholera but a soppy contrivance. Should I go out on a limb and try Narcissus and Goldmund? Whoa! But before I do, I will have to take another look at that amazing book. Sudhir’s nearly four decades old tattered copy must be lying somewhere.
And I just remembered that I wrote at least one book related post in which I used more adjectives about my “feelings” than about the books’ contents. But that one was not a typical review, rather a nostalgic backward glance at several books. And I did use Dean’s “thumbs up – thumbs down” motif.
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