Writers vs. Readers: The Ultimate Smackdown

I've been thinking lately about difficult writing. That's perhaps a misnomer, actually, because I've really been thinking about difficult reading. Jhumpa Lahiri's The Namesake, the subject of my last post, got this ball of burdensomeness rolling when it came up for discussion in a class of fellow graduate students. There's one key difference between myself and these particular fellow students, though, that I think informs the contentiousness of what is really a pretty vanilla book. They're all writers, in the making-things-up, publishing-for-the-market-that-isn't-interested-in-Frenchmen-redefining-words-all-the-time, has-Random-House-called-yet kind of way. I am not that kind of writer.

This reaction of mine is not meant as an insult. I do not define myself negatively because I find that idea of the writer to be negative. I define myself that way because I do have a degree in writing and don't want to engender any confusion on that front. I define in a reactive way because I haven't yet figured out the positive definition of what and who I am. Frankly, I'm ok with that. It goes along with my distaste for setting goals, but I'll save that discussion for after I read Barbara Ehrenreich on positivism.

Lahiri is ridiculously successful. The Namesake won the Pulitzer, for goodness' sake. But it's not a very complicated book. I enjoyed reading it, but it was breezy and light and didn't evoke strong emotions, particularly not for the characters' sakes. From my last post, it's clear the book did create memorable connections to my own experience. But that's not the same as a book forging whole new paths in my brain. I felt rather that this book merely led me more slowly along paths I've trodden before. My classmates didn't seem to get even that much from it. In the words of one woman, who always offers well-reasoned and insightful comments, "I actively disliked it."

I've been trying ever since that class to make sense of the almost uniform dislike expressed by this group of writers. During the conversation, I defended the book, as did one other student. He and I have similarly comfortable sort-of foreign, sort-of not backgrounds that might account for our attachment to a book about immigrants that focuses on feelings and assumes a stable economic and political situtation. But the more I think about The Namesake, the more I realize that it doesn't really focus on feelings. The text never lets you in, never invites you to share a titillating bit of info or the excitement of a sexual escapade. All that gets glossed over. In reading, I must have inserted all the good stuff from my own experience, and let it mix with the words and actions and characters actually on the page.

The further I get from the experience of reading, the more disenchanted I become with the book. That's usually how I judge: about three weeks later. Because those books that I truly love are the ones whose endings I can't quite remember, but I do remember one character or description or awkward moment or turn of phrase that I have incorporated into my character and ways of speaking and attitudes towards others. With Lahiri, there is nothing to incorporate. Instead, I incorporated myself into the book, and mistook that self for something deeper within the text itself.

Even in acknowledging all this though--that I don't like it as much as I thought and it certainly shouldn't have won the Pulitzer--I feel compelled to defend the book against the primary complaint I heard from my fellow students. It's too accessible. Really? As writers, considering the market, weighing what you want to write against what people want to read, searching for a publisher and devoted followers, how is accessibility necessarily a bad thing? That complaint would have surprised me far less coming from literature students, who slog through difficult writing as a matter of course. (For an example, see Michael McKeon on anything. Anything at all. Just read a paragraph. You'll get the idea.)

Full disclosure: Samuel R. Delany, the sci-fi guy, also makes the following argument, which I was excited to see someone else espouse when I read him.

Difficult writing has its place. Some ideas are intrinsically difficult, and require some verbal jumping-through-hoops and big words to express well enough and clearly enough that they can be understood correctly. Currently, I'm reading Foucault's History of Sexuality, and it's not the most transparent thing. Concomitantly, it's not the most opaque. Rather, Foucault seems to have hit on just the level of difficulty needed to convey his often non-instinctive ideas. If it was too easy, it wouldn't have the same level of insight and nuance. So difficult writing has its place.

But Lahiri isn't trying to take apart the dominate discourse. She's just trying to show us an immigrant family and some of their (admittedly minor) struggles. And if doing so in an accessible fashion gets her books just flying off the shelves of Borders and Whole Foods, then good on 'er. I'm inclined to think that people reading, no matter what, is a good thing. People reading about other cultures than their own, even if the treatment of that culture stays surface-bound, is definitely a good thing. Lahiri hasn't contributed anything to the literary conversation about the immigrant experience and what it means to write as a minority American. She has, however, contributed to the general public's conversation about what it means to be an average American. The Bengali characters Lahiri shows in Boston and New York, celebrating Christmas, dating white people, are now entrenched in her readers' minds. These readers may never have met an Indian-American in real life, but by getting to know Gogol and his family, the Indian-American experience no longer seems so foreign. Lahiri has taken the Other and through her easy and engaging writing style, made it seem not so Other at all.

That's where accessible writing has its place. Not everyone reads at the same level, and that's all fine and well. Maybe I'm in this particular camp on the subject because Mr. P, with whom I share everything else, couldn't give two red hoots for reading. I know that doesn't make him less intelligent or knowledgeable; in fact quite the opposite is true. He knows chemistry and I know criticism. Which one of us uses our brain more deeply and thoroughly and usefully? Impossible to say, but I do know the fact that I read and he doesn't means squat in answering that question.

For Lahiri's readers, then, perhaps reading isn't an intellectual activity. But it can still be an activity that acquaints them with lives they've never seen before. Those lives aren't fully explored in The Namesake, and we're always at a distance from the characters' interiorities, but we have to start somewhere, right? New things are scary, and Lahiri knows just how far she can push the new before it gets too scary.

The writers reading her book know too much. They know how to parse difficult reading, and they are offended by accessible writing that sells. It's an insult to them, who spend their time perfecting their own literary craft. To them I say, remember. Remember that not everyone is like you. Remember that reading is a skill which you have fought for and struggled with and honed into a sharp-edged tool. But you too had to start somewhere. And for millions of readers who bought Lahiri's book, maybe it will be the start of their own struggles. Even if they don't struggle on the same scope as you, their struggles can still be worth having.

Make a Name for Yourself

Let's talk about names. After all, the novel in question is Jhumpa Lahiri's The Namesake, the very title of which announces its concern with names and naming. Largely because of this concern, not to mention the main character’s search for a cultural identity, I worry that any attempt at a fictive imitation of the novel (which one of my courses has prompted me to try) would devolve into sentimental, thinly disguised autobiography. So rather than strive for fiction and fail, I’ll stick with a response to the book which embraces my autobiographical impulses.

So let’s talk about names. The novel’s most obvious namesake is Gogol, our hero of sorts, who later changes his name to Nikhil, and was originally named for Nikolai Gogol. The idea of naming a child, just born, after a favorite author is somehow beautiful. The act pays homage to beliefs which have shaped my life: that books are important, that writing can show us who we are, that reading straddles the line between self and other, in a way that can open or close the world to us. But the beauty of this naming only holds up because of the unfamiliarity of ‘Gogol.’ If he had been ‘Nick’ from the get-go, no matter its connection to ‘Nikolai,’ the name would have had no resonance.

Obviously, the oddity of ‘Gogol’ is vital to building Gogol’s sense of self as a character. This Russian name, neither Indian nor American, represents his lack of a clearly defined social identity. His name-change to ‘Nick’ constitutes a deliberate step towards establishing an adult, American identity. But this step comes loaded with consequences Gogol could never foresee. The most obvious is the strange burden he has put on his family of deciding which name to call him, and when. At times, his parents slip, call him ‘Gogol’ in front of college friends, roommates, girlfriends. But can they be blamed for using the name they always intended as a family name, a fond moniker for family use?

Only Gogol’s shame creates the need for blame. His parents’ confusion should not itself be confused with shame. Shame closes us to the world, limits our actions, and dictates our desires. Confusion, however, prevents us from accepting cut-and-dried answers to all our questions. Confusion, shared with the world, reveals a self which is searching, willing to listen, and does not intimidate with unexamined assurance. Through confusion, we come to know our own ignorance. How we deal with confusion can become a central building block of our characters. Gogol’s parents respect his name-changing decision, but do not seem to understand it. They do not share his shame at the lack of an easy-to-read American identity. They express their honest confusion through support, and the occasional slip, calling him Gogol. The blame is not theirs for slipping. It is Gogol’s for not recognizing his parents’ confusion and acting to relate it to his own and resolve it. Instead, Gogol blankets his own and his parents’ confusion with a false identity named ‘Nick.’

What better disguise than a new name? Names come with built-in assumptions about who we are and where we come from. They reassure the people we meet that their judgments of us are apt, or perhaps prompt those same people to recategorize their judgment into a different stereotype. But we can turn this around. We can invite everyone around us to revel in our confusion and leave behind the slick, well-made margins of self which may be easier to understand, but are also quicker to confine. What better way to break through the boundaries of surface judgment and invite others to truly know us than to have a name which does not allow for painless pigeonholing?

I have been ‘Cagle’ since 9th grade. I’m not quite sure, twelve years later, how it happened. The story I tell, particularly to those who assume it’s a military family thing, goes like this. At thirteen, I was gangly and pale. My hair flipped at my shoulders and my bangs at my brows. A typical day might find me wearing hunter green tapered denim, a matching turtleneck, and perhaps a snowman cardigan if it was around the holidays. Braces completed the look. I don’t regret not having the friendship of those who scorned my nerdy self; it is what it is, and I choose a regret-free life.

At some point, these unfriendly trendy kids decided the number of ‘Lauren’s’ was a hassle. The popular crowd decided our fates in homeroom one day, and didn’t bother cc’ing me on the memo. The popular Lauren got to be ‘Lauren.’ The only somewhat popular, but definitely not unpopular, Lauren got to be ‘Lauren Marie,’ the middle name tacked on to the first. And I? I was Cagle. Someone did let me know that I got stuck with my last name because I wasn’t girly enough to be a ‘Lauren.’

Was that really how the name got started? At this point, I am as clueless as someone who’s never even heard of that high school, let alone attended it with me. It doesn’t matter. I have internalized this story, as well as my response. At first, I was dismayed. Then, as has happened with so many labels, I decided to embrace it, to proclaim my awkwardness, my penchant for sci-fi, my good grades, my cross-stitching hobby. But the beautiful thing I discovered was that my name did not proclaim any of these things, at least not to all people. The name has become a clear, shape-shifting vessel into which everyone I meet can pour their experiences with and impressions of me.

At times, people make the association with Kegel exercises. That’s fine. I just make sure to let them know, mine’s spelled like ‘bagel.’ Or at least, more like ‘bagel.’ I’m not too picky on the spelling. And why should I be? If I love being ‘Cagle,’ because it creates more confusion than certainty, then it would be silly to insist on correct spelling all the time. As long as it’s right on my passport and paychecks, I’ll survive. And in the process, I find people willing to make conversation. The name is an open door, beckoning people to come in and poke around a bit. All names are that way, making conversation more comfortable. Just think about any awkward moments talking to someone whose name you had forgotten. How pleasurable was that conversation? An unusual name though, not only makes conversation more comfortable, but makes conversation more likely. It is a starting point, the moniker version of a strange tchotchke, if you will.

Of course, ‘unusual’ is a relative thing, in both senses of the word. ‘Cagle’ can be unusual to those who have never heard it before, just as ‘Gogol’ is unusual to those who haven’t read the Russians, or ‘Nikhil’ is unusual to those unfamiliar with Indian names. To my family, though, ‘Cagle’ is unusual only because it isn’t just my last name. It’s what I go by, who I am. They know the name, know how to spell it, but also know me as ‘Lauren.’ My close family, though, calls me ‘Lolli,’ which is unusual in its own right.

I love these many names. I love that they give me different entry points into the world. I love the nicknames they engender: Cagtastic, Cagdeezy, Caglicious. I love that they give me different vantage points of myself and remind me that I am not always who I think I am. When Gogol changed his name to ‘Nikhil,’ I immediately wondered, “But what do you call yourself in your head?” At the risk of sounding somewhat off, when I talk to myself, I use all my names. It is a freeing experience, to be able to see in yourself multiple overlapping selves which combine into a fluid and variable whole. I wonder, does Gogol experience the same freedom? Or has he, through his name-change, simply traded in one static self for another?

Our names give us a reference point in the world, but we should not confuse that reference point with stable fact. Our names make us recognizable, but should not describe or define us. When I worry that I let the oddity of my name do too much defining, I choose to let that worry be a reminder of the good sort of confusion, a reminder of the questions I should be asking of myself. Who am I? How do I express my self to others, respectfully and courteously? What is constant in me, and what am I still creating? What am I razing to make room, and where is there room I haven’t filled yet?

All this from a name. As Gogol’s struggle with his name illustrates his search for self, an embrace of a name can illustrate a conscious creation of self. Here I will leave my musings, but for one small example of how a name can change the game. Those people you see or talk to every week, or every day, at Starbucks or the grocery store or riding the campus shuttle bus or sitting in the library: All those people have names. And if you ask what it is, and share with them yours, they become three-dimensional vessels, ready to be filled with interactions and conversation and that strange satisfaction that comes from knowing who we are in relation to the world around us.