Once upon a time, whenever I was in need of a good book and seeking a little direction, I would turn to the Best Sellers List of The New York Times. Until recently, it had been my most reliable source of literary guidance. More concise than the newspaper's book reviews, the Best Sellers List allowed me the luxury of skimming through several titles, selecting the most intriguing, and leaving a book store with novel in hand, feeling reasonably secure that I had made a wise purchase.
And then, rather inexplicably, all of this changed. Instead of finding the kinds of authors who had won Pulitzers and National Book Awards, suddenly I was faced with a compilation of names that resembled a list of invites to what I could only envision as a trashy costume party. Dean Koontz, Mary Higgins Clark, Nora Roberts, Stephen King... I wasn't looking for horror, suspense or love scenes. At least not those of the third-rate, made-for-Lifetime variety. How can you help but wonder about the literary integrity of authors who spit out books averaging 300 pages every three to six months? The kinds of authors interviewed by the likes of Larry King and Charlie Rose, those who dominated the Best Sellers List in its glory days, struggled for a minimum of three years just to publish one novel. These were the kinds of novels I wanted to read - novels that would challenge my mind and change my life. With very few exceptions, the Best Sellers List no longer seemed to offer that kind of novel to even its most loyal readers.
I was faced with the realization that I would have better luck finding a good read by walking into the book store with my eyes closed and selecting a novel at random than by checking my sources at the Times before setting foot out of the house. And I was not happy.
I understand the need for an easy read as well as the next person. Complex novels require a particular investment of time, energy, and personal involvement that makes it difficult to restrict oneself to those novels that gain critical acclaim within the most elite of literary circles. I am not suggesting that those be the only kinds of novels anyone reads. Easy reads, however, should be an occasional indulgence, not a habit. Judging from the kinds of authors that regularly appear on the list, sometimes even occupying two spots in a given week for different novels, the American readership has fallen into the routine of picking out the easiest reads it can find. This shift in habits is disconcerting: the easiest conclusion is that the public simply no longer has the capacity to read a novel that is more complex than a Hallmark greeting card.
I'd prefer to think that this is a manifestation of our increasingly busy lives. The novels published by these authors are not only easy to read but remarkably similar as well. Recurring themes include the spurned lover, the quest for revenge, adultery, and the crime so horrendous it is simply unspeakable. Part of what makes these novels so easy to read is that they are so alike - each novel you read is easier than the last, because you are already familiar with the plot, the characters, and the conclusion.
Whatever it is that lies at the root of this upsetting change in readers, the fact remains that novels are like stocks - you have to diversify. Limiting yourself to only one kind of novel - that kind being the easy kind - creates a numbness and ignorance of the boundless literary genius that exists despite its absence amongst the best sellers. Many of the best novels are inconspicuous and unassuming; it takes a discerning literary eye to pick these novels out from the rest. Easy reads are a habit that is frighteningly effortless to slip into. Once you do, it's almost impossible to get out.
It is unfair to generalize and say that none of the novels on the Best Sellers List are worth reading. Sometimes a novel will make an appearance on the list, however brief, that is truly worth the distinction. I'm not talking about the latest addition to Oprah's Book Club, which more often than not garners its position as a result of publicity and not actual literary brilliance (although the latest is currently holding the fourth spot and is an impressive, noteworthy work of fiction). When novels like Carl Hiassen's Basket Case and Michael Chabon's The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay challenge current literary trends and make an appearance on the list, I remember that The New York Times is incapable of entirely failing me. Somehow, there are times when an author manages to make enough of an impression to snap the public out of its easy-read stupor to read something new. And when this happens, I return to skimming the titles in the Best Sellers List and give The New York Times, and the public, another chance.
