Via Andrew Sullivan, Jessa Crispin complains about the inescapable pressure to read certain books every year:
Once you get done with the Musts — the Franzens, Mitchells, Vollmanns, Roths, Shteyngarts — and then get through the Booker long list, and the same half-dozen memoirs everyone else is reading this year (crack
addiction and face blindness seem incredibly important this year), you have time for maybe two quirky choices, if you are a hardcore reader.
Wait a second. Back up. Face blindness is big in novels this year? Seriously? Are any of them any good? I have a hell of a time recognizing faces, a problem that makes movie viewing a real pain the ass. I spent the entire first half hour of The Prestige, for example, getting Hugh Jackman and Christian Bale mixed up. A different hair color makes someone a new person to me. Photograph the same person from two different angles and I have to stare hard to convince myself that it’s not two different people.
(On the other hand, I had a boss once who had supervised one of my coworkers for two years. She came in one day with a different hairstyle and he passed her in the hallway without recognizing her. I don’t think I’m quite that bad off.)
Anyway, combine this with my lousy memory for names1 and it makes social occasions pretty onerous affairs. But it might be fun to read a novel where this plays a key part, as long as it’s not just an excuse for an extended whining session. Any recommendations?
1And voices. For God’s sake, if you ever call me on the phone, identify yourself. I won’t recognize your voice if you don’t.
