on the variance of mileage
27/7/07 14:36![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
bronze_ribbonsOne of my all-time favorite journal reads is truepenny's "John Milton How I Hate Him" post. In it, she acknowledges that (1) she ought to like Milton's work, and (2) she can't stand it anyhow.
There are NYT bestsellers and fandom classics that leave me underwhelmed, and yet there are Nora Roberts novels and cheesy French power-ballads that bring tears to my eyes. There are technically perfect poems and immaculately plotted mysteries that leave me unmoved, and others that dazzle me precisely because the author took such pains to get things right.
With any author or artist, my reaction may depend on timing, headspace, and amount of bourbon at hand. As with any reader, I have baggage the author can't possibly know about - buttons he or she may end up inadvertently pushing -- but, as with any reader, I'm also entitled to say, "This simply didn't connect with me. This failed to convince me it was true or that it matters."
Medium of delivery matters, too: I don't care much for any of the Brontes, but Claire Bloom's live reading of Jane Eyre (Chicago, 1989) was deliberately, winningly droll, and there was one scene in a 1990s University of Michigan production of Wuthering Heights that made me cry. On the flip side, there have been productions of plays and movies I ended up not enjoying because there was too much dissonance between what I was seeing acted out and the scenes I'd heard and seen within my own mind as I read them.
Among my friends, opinion is wildly divided when it comes to Austen, Bujold, Dickens, Melville, Tolkien, and pretty much any other major author you can think of. There are people very dear to me who adore Confederacy of Dunces and I simply don't get it; on the other hand, I reread The Fountainhead every couple of years and I have friends who would sooner run naked through Boston in a snowstorm than open that book.
The link to truepenny's post: http://truepenny.livejournal.com/399249.html
In other museanderings, I had thought all was quiet in the plotbunny warren and was kind of thinking a break would be a good thing, but then one of the damned beasts snuck up and sank its fangs into me yesterday morning, and deep. What I thought would be a drabble (no, I never do learn) is currently at 1,800 words and counting, and I've reached the point where I don't actually know what happens next. Fortunately, there's no rush. The characters will eventually let me know, and in the meantime, I'm going to go make myself lunch and work on the things I'm actually supposed to. ;-)
There are NYT bestsellers and fandom classics that leave me underwhelmed, and yet there are Nora Roberts novels and cheesy French power-ballads that bring tears to my eyes. There are technically perfect poems and immaculately plotted mysteries that leave me unmoved, and others that dazzle me precisely because the author took such pains to get things right.
With any author or artist, my reaction may depend on timing, headspace, and amount of bourbon at hand. As with any reader, I have baggage the author can't possibly know about - buttons he or she may end up inadvertently pushing -- but, as with any reader, I'm also entitled to say, "This simply didn't connect with me. This failed to convince me it was true or that it matters."
Medium of delivery matters, too: I don't care much for any of the Brontes, but Claire Bloom's live reading of Jane Eyre (Chicago, 1989) was deliberately, winningly droll, and there was one scene in a 1990s University of Michigan production of Wuthering Heights that made me cry. On the flip side, there have been productions of plays and movies I ended up not enjoying because there was too much dissonance between what I was seeing acted out and the scenes I'd heard and seen within my own mind as I read them.
Among my friends, opinion is wildly divided when it comes to Austen, Bujold, Dickens, Melville, Tolkien, and pretty much any other major author you can think of. There are people very dear to me who adore Confederacy of Dunces and I simply don't get it; on the other hand, I reread The Fountainhead every couple of years and I have friends who would sooner run naked through Boston in a snowstorm than open that book.
The link to truepenny's post: http://truepenny.livejournal.com/399249.html
In other museanderings, I had thought all was quiet in the plotbunny warren and was kind of thinking a break would be a good thing, but then one of the damned beasts snuck up and sank its fangs into me yesterday morning, and deep. What I thought would be a drabble (no, I never do learn) is currently at 1,800 words and counting, and I've reached the point where I don't actually know what happens next. Fortunately, there's no rush. The characters will eventually let me know, and in the meantime, I'm going to go make myself lunch and work on the things I'm actually supposed to. ;-)