“I was just a pure capitalist,” he said.
I've been thinking today about the New York Times's 'Book Reviewers for Hire' article, which both Jillian and sj have blogged about. The article can be summed by it's headline: simply the subject of the article, Todd Rutherford, started a business writing positive reviews for self-published writers:
When I first saw the link to this article a few days ago, I didn't read it because I felt that it didn't concern me. I don't review books. Furthermore, I am very rarely asked to review books, and if I am ever asked in the future I will most likely turn the offer down because I cannot review books, especially on demand. There are many books that I have enjoyed, even loved, that never get a mention on this blog other than on the "Read: 2011-2012" page because I need to be moved by a book, and that is a very personal thing. It's dependent on my mood at the time of reading it or on the day I've finished it. I've missed the boat a few times when I've read a book I've loved but not had time to blog about it, and then the moment is gone. It happens all the time, and if something interrupts me from this blog post tonight it will never be written: I won't be able to write until Friday, and who knows what I'll be in the mood for then? Capricious? Maybe. Yes, in fact. Why not? Why force myself to write about a book when I'm not in the mood, why suck the joy out of life when I don't need to? I've just started The Sea, The Sea by Iris Murdoch, and it may be that there is something so wonderful in there I have to tell you, and why would I suppress that in order to write about something that concerned me a few days ago?
Because of this, and because I've always been very clear on this, I cannot imagine that anyone would come to this blog for an objective review. It's far too personal. In February, I wrote about how perfect I found The Dharma Bums, but would it have been so perfect had it not have been deliberately sought out on the anniversary of my friend's death? How could I ever read that book without remembering him talking about Jack Kerouac with his eyes shining and his whole life ahead of him? The night I read that book, I shared something with him even if he had been dead six years. I'm thinking far too much about death today, there's too much of it, and I hate that I've watched another one of my pets die in front of me. And there it is again: I said this article made a depressing read, but exactly why wouldn't I be depressed today? I probably could review this article, nay, the whole of the Western Canon objectively, but I don't want to and that's an end to it.
And it's not that I'm thinking entirely of myself when I blog, because although this blog is about me, and my reaction to a book, I do genuinely want you to have the same feelings as me when it comes to a book. I want you to be as excited as I am, and I know all of you reading this have been and can do so without me, but I'll read something that blew me away, so of course I want to tell you about it. The whole thing, reading and discovering books is a thrilling experience, how could I keep it to myself? Why would I want to?
And I think this is the same for a lot of the blogs I read. Jillian says her blog is her reading journal:
But I've written about this before. The point was the article. The money, capitalism, hits and shares and numbers, and oh God. I actually paused there to hold my head in my hands.
Imagine if Samuel Richarson was alive, do you think he'd be rubbing his hands in glee with £ signs in his eyes after I wrote my bit on Clarissa, and later, when a few of you decided to give it a go and you went out (or online) and bought it? I'm not saying the man didn't need to eat. Professional writers are just that, writing for money, and people do need to eat and pay their water and electricity bills and more besides. And it must be exciting for an author, and surely Samuel Richardson would be pleased that his writing had made me so happy and inspired?
That's what has been lost with this "Book reviewers for hire" business; that's what depresses me. There is no thrill. "Stunning and compelling. Or words to that effect." - doesn't that just sum it up? I would beg you to read a book, like Anne Bronte's Agnes Grey, Henry James's The Aspern Papers, Elizabeth Gaskell's North and Sourth, George Eliot's The Mill on the Floss, or, yes, Clarissa, because they touched me. I'm looking for something, and I'm not sure what. All these books I buy and read, there is something in them, something vast and epic, they will make me feel something I cannot contain. There are giants in this room, and I'll tell you about them when I find them, and maybe you'll see the giants as well. But maybe you won't, because we have different experiences and either the book I'm raving about won't quite come at the right time, or maybe it will never come at the right time. But I'll tell you anyway because I want you to see the giants, just as I would point out a full moon to you, or mountains with mist rising around it, or something else so wonderful because you might be excited as well.
I can't make that up, and I would have to if I was paid. You would know if I told you to read Clarissa (only £19 on Amazon, save 20% if you order today and get next day delivery! [I'm making that up]) because Clarissa is an epic read, one of the greatest books ever written, and will have you at the edge of your seat from start to finish, and any other cliché I can throw in. It would be cold, heartless and soulless, and this is the problem with writing positive reviews for money and nothing more. Simply churning it out for money. Where is the thrill, the love, the tenderness, and the affection? Dickens is an old friend now, and Zola is new and exciting., and one cannot fake this, so it's left out, and it doesn't matter anyway because you're getting paid at the end of the day.
It doesn't have to be like this. There are plenty of bloggers that I trust (I won't list them because I will forget to mention someone, then worry and worry in case I make anyone feel bad). I don't need to rely on people I don't know for reviews, no one does. But the article revealed a machine that belongs not to art but to capitalism, and I won't be a part of that machine nor will I associate with it. This is personal, far too personal for a machine to convey. Surely it ought to be?
Then it would say exactly what the client wanted — that it was a terrific book. A shattering novel. A classic memoir. Will change your life. Lyrical and gripping, Stunning and compelling. Or words to that effect.It makes for a depressing read.
When I first saw the link to this article a few days ago, I didn't read it because I felt that it didn't concern me. I don't review books. Furthermore, I am very rarely asked to review books, and if I am ever asked in the future I will most likely turn the offer down because I cannot review books, especially on demand. There are many books that I have enjoyed, even loved, that never get a mention on this blog other than on the "Read: 2011-2012" page because I need to be moved by a book, and that is a very personal thing. It's dependent on my mood at the time of reading it or on the day I've finished it. I've missed the boat a few times when I've read a book I've loved but not had time to blog about it, and then the moment is gone. It happens all the time, and if something interrupts me from this blog post tonight it will never be written: I won't be able to write until Friday, and who knows what I'll be in the mood for then? Capricious? Maybe. Yes, in fact. Why not? Why force myself to write about a book when I'm not in the mood, why suck the joy out of life when I don't need to? I've just started The Sea, The Sea by Iris Murdoch, and it may be that there is something so wonderful in there I have to tell you, and why would I suppress that in order to write about something that concerned me a few days ago?
Because of this, and because I've always been very clear on this, I cannot imagine that anyone would come to this blog for an objective review. It's far too personal. In February, I wrote about how perfect I found The Dharma Bums, but would it have been so perfect had it not have been deliberately sought out on the anniversary of my friend's death? How could I ever read that book without remembering him talking about Jack Kerouac with his eyes shining and his whole life ahead of him? The night I read that book, I shared something with him even if he had been dead six years. I'm thinking far too much about death today, there's too much of it, and I hate that I've watched another one of my pets die in front of me. And there it is again: I said this article made a depressing read, but exactly why wouldn't I be depressed today? I probably could review this article, nay, the whole of the Western Canon objectively, but I don't want to and that's an end to it.
And it's not that I'm thinking entirely of myself when I blog, because although this blog is about me, and my reaction to a book, I do genuinely want you to have the same feelings as me when it comes to a book. I want you to be as excited as I am, and I know all of you reading this have been and can do so without me, but I'll read something that blew me away, so of course I want to tell you about it. The whole thing, reading and discovering books is a thrilling experience, how could I keep it to myself? Why would I want to?
And I think this is the same for a lot of the blogs I read. Jillian says her blog is her reading journal:
This post is just a gentle reminder that there are all sorts of book blogs out there, and we aren’t all reading to critique. Some of us are reading to journal and explore... I want to share what is lovely about reading.And she does it perfectly, and I think she's one of those must-read bloggers.
But I've written about this before. The point was the article. The money, capitalism, hits and shares and numbers, and oh God. I actually paused there to hold my head in my hands.
Imagine if Samuel Richarson was alive, do you think he'd be rubbing his hands in glee with £ signs in his eyes after I wrote my bit on Clarissa, and later, when a few of you decided to give it a go and you went out (or online) and bought it? I'm not saying the man didn't need to eat. Professional writers are just that, writing for money, and people do need to eat and pay their water and electricity bills and more besides. And it must be exciting for an author, and surely Samuel Richardson would be pleased that his writing had made me so happy and inspired?
That's what has been lost with this "Book reviewers for hire" business; that's what depresses me. There is no thrill. "Stunning and compelling. Or words to that effect." - doesn't that just sum it up? I would beg you to read a book, like Anne Bronte's Agnes Grey, Henry James's The Aspern Papers, Elizabeth Gaskell's North and Sourth, George Eliot's The Mill on the Floss, or, yes, Clarissa, because they touched me. I'm looking for something, and I'm not sure what. All these books I buy and read, there is something in them, something vast and epic, they will make me feel something I cannot contain. There are giants in this room, and I'll tell you about them when I find them, and maybe you'll see the giants as well. But maybe you won't, because we have different experiences and either the book I'm raving about won't quite come at the right time, or maybe it will never come at the right time. But I'll tell you anyway because I want you to see the giants, just as I would point out a full moon to you, or mountains with mist rising around it, or something else so wonderful because you might be excited as well.
I can't make that up, and I would have to if I was paid. You would know if I told you to read Clarissa (only £19 on Amazon, save 20% if you order today and get next day delivery! [I'm making that up]) because Clarissa is an epic read, one of the greatest books ever written, and will have you at the edge of your seat from start to finish, and any other cliché I can throw in. It would be cold, heartless and soulless, and this is the problem with writing positive reviews for money and nothing more. Simply churning it out for money. Where is the thrill, the love, the tenderness, and the affection? Dickens is an old friend now, and Zola is new and exciting., and one cannot fake this, so it's left out, and it doesn't matter anyway because you're getting paid at the end of the day.
It doesn't have to be like this. There are plenty of bloggers that I trust (I won't list them because I will forget to mention someone, then worry and worry in case I make anyone feel bad). I don't need to rely on people I don't know for reviews, no one does. But the article revealed a machine that belongs not to art but to capitalism, and I won't be a part of that machine nor will I associate with it. This is personal, far too personal for a machine to convey. Surely it ought to be?
I like to read those thoughts on books that come from the heart. Yours always do, my friend, and I keep coming back to read about what has moved you or annoyed you or ... :)
ReplyDelete*[T]he article revealed a machine that belongs not to art but to capitalism, and I won't be a part of that machine nor will I associate with it. This is personal, far too personal for a machine to convey. Surely it ought to be?*
ReplyDeleteYES! This. Exactly.
You always cut right to those giants and say so well what is in the soul of me but hasn't found words. x
(I am still working on Clarissa. I want you to know I DOOOO love it!! I just lack that much attention span - ha! Slowly but surely.)
Thank you both, I appreciate that <3 And Jillian - you said it perfectly yourself, I just had to add my two penneth :) And I'm glad you like Clarissa still - one of those books you have to go at your own pace. I'd hate to see you decide to battle through it, resent it, and hate your life whilst you're stuck with it!
ReplyDelete'There are giants in this room'
ReplyDeleteLike that, lots:)