I was recently recruited to compose a poem for a literary collection. But the guidelines pertained not to form or length, but to content. Acceptable submissions were to be light and/or humorous. Nothing dark or strange would suit. (I considered writing a poem about my cat. Of course, this didn't exactly work out, as everyone knows that cats are inherently dark and sinister creatures out to thwart you at every turn. What was I thinking?)
Eventually I had to admit that this was not a project I was cut out for. Was I not a light and happy person? Or is happiness in art overrated?
Jenn Farrell's latest collection of short stories,
The Devil You Know, was
reviewed by Clay Hemmerich of Concordia's student newspaper, The Link. Although Hemmerich admits that
The Devil You Know is "written in irreproachable prose," he bases the bulk of his criticism on the fact that "the collection has very few moments of good humour." Hemmerich writes that after having read Farrell's work, he now "understand[s] the grim feeling of depression." "Pick it up if you want to feel down," he concludes.
Really? Is that the final word? Why isn't "irreproachable prose" enough to redeem the author of this book? Furthermore, is the fact that the book didn't make him feel happy even a relevant point of contention?
Both Dalhousie University and Queens University provide guidelines for writing a book review. Point of view, style, authority, character development, plot, and format are each considered worthy of a book reviewer's attention. It is the reviewer's responsibility to examine all of these areas for any signs of weakness. And in an age where it’s all been done before, originality is critical.
In order to provide a sound review, the reviewer must first read the entire book. This might go without saying for some. Others, like Hemmerich, perhaps have some difficulty with this component. In his review, Hemmerich comments only on the first story in Farrell's collection, calling it "morbid." Comments like "painstakingly insightful" and "fearless with the intimate details of her characters" are as close as Hemmerich comes to touching the other categories of a book review. And while "morbidity" is neither original or new, Hemmerich admits that he didn't understand depression before this book, so it must at least be new to him.
Upon close inspection, Hemmerich is guilty of the ultimate sin: bias. In his review of The Devil You Know, he fails to separate personal preference from his categorical assessment. This brings me back to my original qualm: what's so terrible about the perverse and the profane? Does happiness really make good art?
I don't know. But I do know that the degree of happiness (or unhappiness) should never dictate the final word on a piece of art. Remember what happened to
Claude Tanner from Degrassi High? Amidst the humorous acts for the talent show auditions, the social misfit decided to recite a poem he had written. After listening to his descriptions of "autumn leaves, dying leaves/season of death" and laments for all that is "soothing, black and warm," the judges decided that Tanner's poem is "just a little depressing." Maybe if they had critiqued it for style rather than content, he wouldn't have killed himself.
How's that for morbid?
