A Sensibility of Worth

Robbie writes a bunch of stuff, including:

"Reading, for instance, Shakespeare, might be even more conducive to being a
part of the times in which I live than reading whoever is called the best of
the youngest generation of writers."

I have no idea how one would measure this "more." It seems to be an
arbitrary and purely subjective claim so far.

Of course the past informs the present. But so does the present, in its own
way. And it's just as easy for me to write, with the same random confidence,
that:

"Watching, for instance, *Survivor*, might even be more conducive to being a
part of the times in which I live than reading Shakespeare."

In any case, I certainly do not think it's a case of either/or. Neither
sentence is demonstrably true, I suspect. And none of this really has anything to
do with "worth," which once again remains a complex problem -- since there
are all sorts of reasons why something can be worthwhile, and only a small
number of those reasons have anything to do with how long those things might last.
Robbie's "trust" in "the scrutiny of a generation of critics and academicians
and trusted friends" is charming and loyal, but it doesn't make reading
Shakespeare this rainy afternoon any more "worthwhile" for me than listening to
Steely Dan or Tom Waits (neither of which are likely to have a fraction of
Willy's shelf life). It reamains quite possible that this afternoon my experience
with these new works will have as much worth for me, will be as moving or as
thought-provoking or as beautiful to me here on this rainy afternoon in this
condo, as moments spent with any old ones, including the old ones I love so
dearly. Do I think Hunter Thompson is as good as Kafka? Of course not. Are there
moments when reading Thompson is worth more to me than reading my dear Franz?
Absolutely. And I'm not brave enough, or foolish enough, or young enough to
say that I know which one is "worth" more in any final or simple way.

He does offer this truism, though, after filling us in on his reading likes
and dislikes (though not his astrological sign, nor his favorite food, nor much
of the other stuff in Bunny-profiles):

"I find that the experience tends to be much more richly rewarding for me. 
Perhaps your experience is different; this is mine."

It is. Completely different. And the discussion could probably end there.

But he wishes to explain why his reading habits are "sensible." And it is
this desire that seems so strange to me, so odd, so curious. It is this desire
that fascinates me and makes me smile.

Why would anyone wish to defend their reading habits (or their listening
habits or their viewing habits or their sexual habits or any of their aesthetic
passions) as "sensible?"

Who wants their loves (even of art) to be sensible?

Who wants to demonstrate to the world that they like the literature that they
like for "sensible" reasons?

To what sort of person would this be the important thing?

And who would want to claim that their sensible reasons for reading are based
on the "worth" of the books they read?

"Worth" and "Sensible" -- these are the words here that define Robbie's
peculiar need to defend his own subjective aesthetic. And to me they say all I
need to know about why we will never agree on such things and why I suspect that
his claims are purely subjective passions disguised in the rhetoric of a
pleading rationality.

Many of the reasons that I love the music and the art and the literature and
the films and the games and the moments and the sex and the people that I love
are, I admit readily, not "sensible" reasons, nor are they based on any
use-exchange value that can be quantified and measured in terms of "worth" to
anyone else necessarily. This does not stop me from sharing them or teaching them
or writing about them -- it doesn't even slow me down. But it does remind me
to celebrate the delightful heterogeneity of such decisions and moments and
experiences and to celebrate the infinite possibilities for finding "worth" in
some of the unlikeliest of places.

I had a student recently who was passionate about *Infinite Jest*. For me it
was work and I probably wouldn't have finished it if I was not directing his
thesis. But there is no doubt in my mind, none whatsoever, that this book
changed this young man's life. It moved him and thrilled him and enriched him
and was beautiful for him and prompted within him a great passion for reading
and thinking and loving literature and marveling at all the things that writing
can do. It did this in the same way so many "old" books, *Moby Dick* and
*Absalom, Absalom* and *The Trial* and *Don Quixote* and so many others have done
for me. Do I really want to sit here and argue that Wallace's tome is as
"good" as those other books? It's not, for me. But it most certainly was as worth
as much, every bit as much, for this young man as those books were for me.
And I think that's far more important than the question of how long *Infinite
Jest* is likely to remain on the shelves.

And it's raining here, so I have all day to chat about it.

Have a fine Sunday,

--John

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Received on Sun Dec 14 09:29:52 2003