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There are so many books that are well written, considered masterpieces, but are not *good* books—most of the pre 1900s "classics" fall into that category for me.
Though, I do find it interesting when it was the author's intent to make us dislike the main character/theme.
Though, I do find it interesting when it was the author's intent to make us dislike the main character/theme.
Take Salinger's Hapworth 16, 1924: Seymour is so unlikeable (surely it's intentional?!), that it's practically impossible to enjoy the story. If I met Seymour irl, I'd avoid him like the plague, and that's how I felt reading it. Every second in his company was/is hell.
Roth's Portnoy's Complaint is another—a monologue between client & therapist. It was tedious & often dense. I had little sympathy &, at times, just wanted him to shut up. Roth drew me in so far that I felt a part of the story (like the therapist) but didn't enjoy the experience.
Kerouac's On The Road: a stream of conciousness tale that's erratic and dense. Just like a real stream of consciousness would be, & he captures it perfectly. But who wants to listen to someone ramble & unload for hours without taking a breath, especially when they're a prick?
I guess it's a case of separating the writing as a craft, from the story itself, but purposefully fostering dislike is an interesting approach.
And seeing as this thread lacks both style and substance, I'm not too worried about the reader's reaction.
And seeing as this thread lacks both style and substance, I'm not too worried about the reader's reaction.
