Can You Hate a Great Book? That Depends How You Define Great...

When I was younger, I loved the moment before I started writing a story. When I had the idea, but not the words. In that never-never land of thought and possibility, I could be on the verge of writing the greatest story in existence (or at least in my genre). However, the second I put down a word, then a sentence, then a page, the percentage would fall. 80% chance of writing a masterpiece...65%... 15%...and on down to, “well, it’s a book one or two people might love.” Once I inevitably got to the end of the story, or even the end of a long process of editing, what I had was far from a masterpiece. I would even debate if I could comfortably call it “good.” Somehow, it seemed to lack that quality that all great writing had, even though I had kept those ideas in mind as I wrote. Yet what I ended up with was merely okay, a flawed hodgepodge of good intentions. Not a great work of art.

Over the years, I’ve often challenged myself to define the difference between “good” and “great” works of art, particularly in writing. I’ve read so many books over the course of three degrees and forty-four years, and though I’ve enjoyed many of them, only a few dozen would qualify as truly “great.” Because it’s not subjective (not entirely), and it’s not just about enjoyment or pushing an individual’s buttons. No, great writing is something quantifiable, something you can notice and examine and emulate (even if it’s impossible to replicate). And of course, you might strongly dislike a work even while knowing with every page this is a great work of art. I’ve done it—disliked, even hated, a masterpiece. Because “loving” can’t be the sole criteria of art, or even a viable one. There has to be more to telling stories and crafting sentences than falling in love.

Here are a few criteria I’ve compiled over the years to determine the worth of a truly great book—though note that these are rough sketches, rather than definitive rules.

#1: A Great Book Loves Language. By this I mean that the writer enjoys writing for the sake of writing. Words mean something, and are not just empty vehicles to drive a story. Even a writer who hoards his or her words and writes very succinctly can do this. But as you read, note how the sentences unfold. Read them out loud. At some point, the words should dazzle you, the sentences should drive you wild. There have to be passages that make you think, “I know what he/she is saying but I never thought about it like that!” In short, some of the prose should occasionally read like poetry. And poetry isn’t just ornate like Shakespeare or Milton; e.e. Cummings and Raymond Carver also wrote poetry. And both of them loved language.

#2: A Great Book Initially Seems Wrong. Ever picked up a book and thought, “what the hell is this writer doing? You can’t start a book like that? You can’t switch narrators like that? You can’t end a scene like that? You can’t use the tropes like this!” No one is more opinionated or dogmatic than readers, particularly in genre fiction. We like books to follow carefully prescribed rules and enforce these rules zealously as self-appointed gatekeepers. Great writers, however, like to experiment; they simply can’t help themselves. They like to subvert, to turn upside-down, to tell a story backwards instead of forward. Sometimes, granted, the experiments don’t work or seem pretentious. But when they do, it changes the way we think about books. Great writers always challenge the way a story is told and why we read them. Behind every great book is a ton of bad reviews and skeptical readers. Until someone finally gets it and goes, “we should have been doing this from the beginning!” And then we do.

#3: A Great Book Knows Other Books and Traditions. This seems obvious, but it’s vitally important. When you read a great book, you can see/hear the other books and stories behind it. They not only make allusions to other works, but write variations on familiar themes and characters, illustrating that great writing comes from reading other great writing. Too many books pretend that they’re the only book in existence, that they exist in a vacuum, and worse still, that they’re not really writing a book. A book should read like a book (not a movie, or TV show, or something else); the writer should tell us, “look, we’re reading and writing a book together. So what usually happens in books? Let’s play with that.” Epic fantasy should be aware of the titans of Homer, Tolkein, Lord Dunsany, and scores of others in the rear view mirror. You don’t have to tells us you’ve read them (that’s boring and pretentious), but show us by how you tell your tale and the conversation you have with your characters. Good readers will figure it out.

#4: A Great Book Teaches. Take this one with a grain of salt. Yes, books can simply be entertaining and “art for art’s sake.” But even so,  a great book teaches you something about yourself, or the world, or the genre in question. The authors can’t help it. A great book is so involved in the tradition of story telling and the interior lives of its characters that education will inevitably result. It’s like a teacher who goes into a classroom exhausted, burned out, but encounters a classroom of eager students who read the book and wants to have a meaningful conversation about it. Within minutes the teacher will be in love with life again. Ideas will spark up and the teacher will see connections that previously eluded him/her—as well as the students. When a writer is confronted by great ideas, more ideas result. Many of these ideas will be new to us and will change how we see the world.

#5: A Great Book Scratches an Itch. Simply put, a great book sees something that we’re all interested in, or worried about, or wanting to talk about but were afraid to speak up. The great book says all of these things and scratches that cultural itch. You can see this happen in real time. When a book explodes, it’s because it’s found one of our itches and goes to town scratching it. Harry Potter, Twilight, The Hunger Games, The Martian—these are all books that figured out what we worry and dream about and repackaged it for us in the most engaging, readable form. You can pooh-pooh these books all you like, and even question whether they’re that “great” at all (and this criteria alone wouldn’t make a book great). However, there’s no arguing with society...we know what we know, and when we embrace a book whole hog, there’s more than voyeurism behind it.

Are there more criteria than this? Certainly. Could there be a great book that defies all of these criteria? Probably so. However, I encourage you to define great books without recourse to phrases such as “because I loved it,” or “I thought it sucked.” There are brilliant people in the world who you simply don’t like; they might even be assholes in private. However, being smart isn’t subjective—it can be proven, if not with degrees than with actions and results. The same is equally true of books. A book might turn you off or alienate you, but that doesn’t make it bad. In fact, the book that pisses you off the most might be the greatest book you’ve ever read. Think about it...