Wednesday, June 15, 2005
I’ve just lent Marty Tom Sawyer. It’s my favourite book, I think. It’s so hard to tell though: I read an abridged version at seven, was enrapt by the television series at eight, read the full version at sixteen, reread it at twenty one. I know that Huckleberry Finn is a better book, but it’s not stained with my perfidious nostalgia. I hope he likes it.
The Great American Novel. Why does the quest continue? And how would we know if we’d reached the destination? What is the difference between a great novel written by an American and A Great American Novel? Presumably it has to say something about what it is to be human as well as what it is to be American. Need it be written by an American? Would Don Quixote do?
Either way, it’s done. Finished. It’s Moby Dick: enormous; flawed; ambitious; startling; perfect. Read it.
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The Great American Novel. Why does the quest continue? And how would we know if we’d reached the destination? What is the difference between a great novel written by an American and A Great American Novel? Presumably it has to say something about what it is to be human as well as what it is to be American. Need it be written by an American? Would Don Quixote do?
Either way, it’s done. Finished. It’s Moby Dick: enormous; flawed; ambitious; startling; perfect. Read it.
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