One of my favorite literary assassins is the eternally unimpressed Joe Queenan, who has vivisected any number of pop culture figures, politicians, and entire nations in his books and essays.  In a New York Times piece called “Why Not the Worst?” Queenan explains “one of life’s unalloyed pleasures”: finding ”an uncompromisingly stupid novel in a world filled with stupid novels that do make compromises.”

In the essay Queenan explains his resistance to “the tyranny of the good” and confesses, “One of the reasons I became a book reviewer is because it gives me the opportunity to read a steady stream of hopelessly awful books under the pretense of work.”  While the essay revels in Queenan’s effortless eviscerations of bad writing, he also points out the sheer entertainment value and priceless critical thinking practice gained by wallowing in the gutters of horrible literature. 

A slightly different twist on the joys of nasty criticism is offered by Bill Henderson’s Rotten Reviews collections.  The thin but priceless volumes catalog hundreds of witty dismissals of both long-forgotten works and canonized classics.  Assorted victims of these poisonous pens are labeled, among other things, ”an explosion in a cesspool,” “a copy editors despair,” and “a third-rate work of art but a first-rate outrage to our sensibilities.”

Equally evilly enjoyable is Fifty Works of English Literature We Could Do Without, a legendary 1968 collection of essays trashing everything from Beowulf to Hamlet to Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland.  This compilation of hatchet jobs by a triumverate of British writers tears down a series of classics that for centuries have “choked (readers) . . . with the implied obligation to like dull books.”  A particularly tasty example comes from their battering of The Bride of Lammermore:

“What can be made of a writer who at the most poignant and harrowing climax of his novel describes events only with the desperate phrase that they ’surpass description’? It is immediately obvious that we are dealing not with an artist but with Sir Walter Scott.”

All of this reveling in negative reviews also reminded me of a quote usually (but not definitively) attributed to Winston Churchill, in a note responding to a bit of acid criticism directed toward him:      

“I am sitting in the smallest room in my house.  Your criticism is in front of me.  Soon it will be behind me.”

I actually did read French professor and psychoanalyst Pierre Bayard’s book all the way through before finding out I never needed to and learning how to discuss it anyway.

Approximately 97% of all reviews of the book include sentiments along the lines of, “I wish I’d read this book A) in college, B) in high school, C) before becoming a book critic,” but Bayard’s intention turns out to be a little more subtle than handing out speed-scanning tips for lazy students or delinquent book club members.

The book raises some fascinating questions about the psychology, purpose, and pleasures of reading at the same time it attempts to overturn any obligation to actually read before discussing a book.  Bayard convincingly argues that books we haven’t read still influence us through knowledge we’ve managed to gather about them, and he encourages readers to let go of any guilt they may have acquired from failing to read the entire canon of classic literature upon entering adulthood.

Bayard notes, “We must not forget that even a prodigious reader never has access to more than an infinitesimal fraction of the books that exist.”  While he cites fascinating examples of the value of “non-reading” from novels like The Name of the Rose and The Man without Qualities, Bayard even includes a complicated and hilarious footnote technique to alert the reader that he has often only “skimmed” or “heard about” a particular work before forming an opinion about it. 

Along the way, interesting questions are asked about the nature of reading.  If we forget about a book we’ve read, can we really say we’ve “read” it?  Considering the tiny amount we remember about any given book, how much memory constitutes true “reading” anyway?  Using the plot of The Name of the Rose as an example, Bayard points out that deceptive reconstructions or misremembered fragments can become more real in our minds than the true texts.

(And I totally bought it because, even though I’ve never read The Name of the Rose I’ve heard a lot about it and have seen the movie and really would like to read it . . . someday.)

The book is framed by a pair of quotes from the great non-reader Oscar Wilde.  First, Wilde insisted, “I never read a book I must review; it prejudices you so.”  Later, Bayard quotes Wilde’s observation, “To know the vintage and quality of a wine one need not drink the whole cask.” 

Bayard’s philosophy encourages readers to engage their own creativity while practicing what he calls “active non-reading.”  I imagine many teachers and professors might not fully appreciate these techniques that could be mis-applied as “active slacking off” or “creative laziness,” but the book makes a really compelling case for re-thinking the way we approach and talk about reading.