The starlet letter.

11 November 2001—“Well, those are going to be collectors’ items soon,” I said, probably too smugly for my own good.

“Not unless you’ve heard something this morning that I haven’t,” replied the man behind the counter.

I had been pointing to a pile of thick books laid out on the bookstore’s front table, the jackets of said books having been emblazoned with the (by design) instantly recognizable logo of America’s greatest reading army, the Oprah Book Club. The publisher had ecstatically (I presume) added the big O to the cover art as it printed 500,000 additional copies, an addition which, given the formidable purchasing power Oprah devotees employ, practically guaranteed their sale. Problem was, the book was no longer welcome in the club.

Or so I thought.

Poor Jonathan Franzen. After his first two novels received favorable reviews but failed to find a significant audience, he launched a formidable salvo, “Perchance to Dream: In the Age of Images, a Reason to Write Novels,” in the April 1996 issue of Harper’s Magazine (the one with all those funny statistics, not the one with all those funny clothes) decrying the near-death of the socially relevant novel, among other complaints and observations, yet he still manages to arrive at some sort of cathartic conclusion in which he discovered that there really are “serious” readers out there who are hungry for the type of literature he wants to produce. (Bless the folks at the Norfolk Library in Connecticut, who saw fit to scan the essay and put it up on their Web site.)

The essay also deals with Franzen’s conflict about whether to be a personality as well as an author; he argues that the 1990s began an age of author-as-celebrity, most notably the younger, more photogenic writers (though I personally feel the trend began with Bret Easton Ellis and his Brat Pack contemporaries ten years earlier). In one sense, he would like his work to speak for itself, as his obscure literary heroes have demanded of their own work, and in fact he writes that he attempted to do that at first. On the other hand, he also confesses that he desperately wanted to be part of the canon of interviewed authors on a radio program in his hometown of St. Louis.

His disappointing experience upon the fulfillment of that wish is perfect: it points to a pervasive rift between being an artist and being human. And that rift just got him into a lot of trouble.

Armed with a newfound sense of purpose and legitimacy, Franzen set out to write his third novel. Five years and reportedly thousands of discarded pages later, he reemerged (sort of; he had been writing for The New Yorker occasionally) two months ago with The Corrections, a novel hailed by almost everyone who reviewed it as a masterpiece. Franzen was huge — he had performed the literary equivalent of Babe Ruth pointing to the centerfield bleachers during the 1932 World Series just before swatting a homer in that exact direction.

Well, except that the idea that Babe Ruth called his shot has been largely discredited.

I don’t know. Franzen’s two previous novels garnered him a thick scrapbook of glowing reviews but nothing like the attention he’s received for his latest effort. Is The Corrections so much better than the other two? Again, I don’t know–I haven’t read it. I’m in the middle of the first Harry Potter book, on a little break from White Teeth, another heavily lauded entry into the literary canon.

It may be that The Corrections is an astounding literary achievement. It may also be that it has gotten this attention precisely because Franzen called his shot: no article I’ve read concerning the novel has failed to mention the Harper’s piece. Nevertheless, overnight Franzen became a literary starlet whose magnitude exceeded even that of Michael Chabon, this year’s other major critical darling, and Chabon won the Pulitzer.

Enter Oprah. Since 1996, the preeminent television talk-show host has highlighted some forty books she feels her viewers would enjoy reading. She calls it Oprah’s Book Club, and viewers have signed on in droves, reading the books she suggests and participating in discussions about them. Oprah invites a few lucky viewers to dine with her and the author to discuss the current book, and excerpts of the conversation are broadcast on her show. Singlehandedly Oprah has brought the joy of reading back to millions of adults, a phenomenon that is hardly lost on publishers: she can pluck an unknown author out of obscurity and instantly place her on the New York Times bestseller list. Boom, just like that. Who wouldn’t want such success?

Jonathan Franzen wasn’t quite sure what he wanted. In an interview with someone from Powell’s Books in Portland (probably the best bookstore ever, not counting the one my grandparents owned in New York so long ago), Franzen expressed his ambivalence about having been chosen. He intimated a certain discomfort with the symbolism of a corporate seal of approval, but, worse than that, he was critical about some of Oprah’s previous picks, even as he was praising her dedication to promoting reading. Apologists are quick to point out that his remarks were frequently taken out of context. Sorry, even in context one can’t get away from the words schmaltzy and cringe. Not only that, the “good” part of his statement about Oprah (“she’s really smart and really fighting the good fight”) smacked of a certain amount of lip service.

He apparently echoed these sentiments in his interview on Fresh Air, though I didn’t listen to it, so it wouldn’t be fair of me to comment. Oprah heard it, though, or at least she heard a reasonable facsimile, because she decided that Franzen was too uncomfortable with having been chosen, and she canceled the dinner. I mistakenly thought that the book was therefore kicked out of the club, but no, the damage was done too late: the book remains an unwelcome member, its half-million newly printed jackets forever bearing the letter that marks its shame.

Let’s start there. Franzen’s minor sin was bristling at the corporate logo, and on that count I’m inclined to agree with him. Whatever happened to the sticker? Once upon a time, if a book received an accolade worth bragging about, a sticker got lovingly applied to the cover saying so. That’s fine with me; the book and the award are two separate things. When I first realized, however, that the Oprah’s Book Club logo was actually printed on the cover itself, as though the jacket’s art director had thought up this unfortunate design, I recoiled in shock. A line had been crossed. (Just as book jacket design had blossomed into a new golden age of sorts, too.) There’s no going back now: the jacket of Half a Life — the just-released new novel by the just-announced winner of the 2001 Nobel Prize for Literature, V.S. Naipaul — has already been reprinted to reflect its author’s new status, sullying an otherwise gorgeous book cover. Oprah, Nobel, Newbury — makes no difference to me. Again: what the hell is wrong with a sticker?

Franzen’s major sin, however, was (and likely continues to be) an arrogance about what he deems the “serious reader.” He was goaded somewhat by the Powell’s interviewer, but in essence he implied that Oprah’s choices were frequently too lightweight for his tastes. If I’m endorsed by these masses that thrive on unchallenging works of so-called literature, his attitude seemed to say, I’m afraid I won’t be taken seriously as a major writer by those whose opinions really matter.

(Memo to Jonathan: no one likes being called stupid. FYI.)

Some disclosure: I haven’t read any of the books that Oprah has chosen for her book club, including The Corrections. I actually hadn’t taken a look at the list until I was preparing to write this entry, and I admit that I had my own preconceptions about what I would find there; my impression had been that Oprah had a reputation for picking books that were, as Franzen said in the Powell’s interview, “shmaltzy.” On the other hand, I haven’t avoided a book simply because Oprah recommended it. Strangely enough, I simply haven’t read that many novels in the past few years while I’ve been working on my own. Seems antithetical, but I’ve found myself reading mostly sociology and linguistics books along with other nonfiction sources as research for the novel. Having now seen the list, I can say I know there’s at least one book on it that I have been aiming to read, Toni Morrison’s The Bluest Eye. The rest I either hadn’t heard of or had heard of but hadn’t added to my list.

The contemporary novels I have read recently have mostly left me cold. The writing has either been glib or lazy, and for the most part the books have left me without much to think about, during or afterward. One book — memorable only for the hype it received and my (probably disproportionate) resentment about falling for said hype — read like the author had been given one of those word-a-day tear-off calendars as a white-elephant gift one year and challenged himself to use each one of those deservedly obscure words in his novel. Nothing more than mental masturbation.

I don’t know how many books on Oprah’s list Franzen has read, so I don’t know what standing he has to criticize other picks of hers. It seems, however, that his critique is more of a blanket perception than a specific complaint about a few of the books, and that’s really what’s gotten him into trouble. It seems that he’s made an assumption that Oprah and her audience aren’t that interested in what he ranks as good literature. (Memo to Jonathan, part two: I don’t think any awarding body always gets it right, either.)

Still, let’s give him the benefit of the doubt for the moment and assume that, indeed, he has read the books on her list of which he is so dismissive, which has subsequently led him to be wary of joining the club that would have him as a member. He appears to view them as seriously lacking in literary merit, perhaps consisting of cardboard characters serving merely to propel an otherwise engaging plot forward, or perhaps too treacly for their own good, with prose that manhandles everything it touches.

I confess that I have a certain sympathy for him there. People vary in their definitions of what constitutes art and/or what the role of artists in society should be. To often be critical of artistic works that a great number of people enjoy runs you the risk of being considered a snob. I find myself in such a position from time to time, particularly where theater is concerned; for a while I was teased by friends for my statement that Miss Saigon was three hours of my life that I would never get back. Franzen has said clearly that he’s uncomfortable with the idea of being part of an “elite,” yet he espouses views that locate him squarely in those ranks.

Here’s one problem from the start: If you make any kind of distinction between art and entertainment, you are already creating a divide that assigns greater worth to one side than the other. I think most people don’t want to consider themselves elitist — there’s no sympathy in it, for one thing — but at the same time, I think you’d be hard-pressed to find an artist whose goal is to challenge her or his audience who doesn’t make that distinction.

Pure entertainment has its devotees as well. The most obvious example is in the movies, where Hollywood blockbusters are frequently star-driven, special-effects-driven, or both. Their messages, if they have any, are easily stated. People go to those movies to be entertained. Dazzled, perhaps. Across town from the multiplex is the so-called art-house theater, which is showing something independently produced, obtuse or subtitled, likely lacking any kind of formulaic plot. These, by the way, are “films,” not “movies.”

But then it gets dicey. Where is the line drawn between art and mass entertainment? Millions of people have loved Stephen King’s work, but the elite — in this case, the literati — barely acknowledged him until he came out with a book about writing. There are sometimes indie movies at the multiplex and plot-heavy thrillers at the art house. The problem with the literati is that it looks down on the world on the other side of the art/entertainment chasm. Interest in anything less than art is whispered about embarrassedly, a guilty pleasure.

Franzen’s major sin, then, was locating the divide so that his work was art, whereas many of Oprah’s choices were not, and further, were lesser works for the distinction. No matter which way he viewed it now, he set himself up to lose. It wasn’t enough simply to have the door opened to a large audience; it had to be the “right” large audience, one that would go happily digging through his symbols, images, and metaphors to find valuable if cryptic deeper meanings.

Too bad the Charlie Rose Book Club hasn’t really taken off yet.

Franzen could have looked at it like it was his special opportunity to take these middlebrow lemmings and lead them away from the cliff and into the Promised Land of Really Good Literature. No, still too elitist. Damn!

Anyway, it’s not the first time the topic of the societal worth of Oprah’s Book Club has been broached. Two years ago Salon pitted two critics against each other, pro and con, the con argument asserting that Oprah’s legions read only what she tells them is safe to read, that literature readership overall hasn’t seen any change; the pro argument saying, So what? People are reading literature, and that’s wonderful. Yet, even as she praises Oprah, the author of the pro argument says, Hey, I don’t need Oprah to tell me what to read, but I’m glad she’s doing it for other people who are less literate than I. Ew!

I’m inclined to conclude that Franzen should probably have accepted Oprah’s invitation with grace and at least some amount of gratitude. I personally think Oprah has done a wonderful service for people and for reading in general. If he had serious misgivings about it, and a solid argument to back them up, he should have declined it as politely as he could have. He would still have been branded a snob, but there would have been some kind of integrity to it, certainly some amount of bravery for swimming against the tide. If he can make a case for it, that, to me, is one of the jobs of artists: to unapologetically challenge the status quo when they feel they need to. In the end, however, he tried to have it both ways, and it blew up in his face.

The whole incident has made me examine my own values regarding the larger topic of artistic elitism. Just writing this essay has taken me an interminable amount of time to hone my language so that I don’t come off as much of a snob as Franzen has. Even admitting that puts me on the defensive; if I have to be that careful, I must be revealing myself to be exactly the Franzen-level snob who doesn’t want to admit to it.

I hope I’m not. I’d like to think of myself as someone with a wide range of appreciation, who may prefer things that are more challenging but who can enjoy pure entertainment just as much, depending on my mood and the quality of either on their own merits. I have no guilty pleasures; pleasures are pleasures.

But I guess I am, in some way. I’ve said similarly disparaging things about places like Borders Books and Music. True, I’ve fallen for Borders’s convenience at times and am prone to browse when I eat at the food court next door, but I’ve been disappointed in myself for not making the time to trek up to Cody’s Books. We used to have an independent bookstore here in Emeryville (in the same complex where Borders is now), but it left us for larger digs on College Avenue. In an area that has wonderful independent bookstores (which also sell all the books on Oprah’s list) the presence of Borders just galls me. Sure, the books are often cheaper there, and it does have an awful lot of shelves, but it caters purely to the bestsellers and forsakes the rest. Take a look at the women’s studies or African-American sections, for example — tiny collections that are frequently understocked and badly out of alphabetical order, like no one bothers to care for them.

Let’s assume I finish and publish my novel (it’s fun for me to fantasize such, and you are kind for doing so). I’ve wondered: if none of my local independents invites me to do a reading but Borders did, would I accept the invitation? At that point it’s certain failure if I refuse, but I can’t stand what Borders represents. It’s more difficult for an author to build up a grassroots following like a musician can (like, say, Ani Difranco), but E. Lynn Harris did it. I will have to follow in his footsteps, perhaps literally: as legend has it, he walked door to door.

Besides, now that I’ve revealed my feelings about Borders, they wouldn’t invite me anyway. I’m one of those damned snobs, just like Jonathan Franzen, to whom they built a minor shrine in my local outlet. I wonder, though: was it because they read the book and thought it was the best thing they’d read in years, or did they just want to make sure buyers wouldn’t miss the book with all that buzz?