Although my spring instruction has
come to a convenient conclusion, there has been an existential void in my life
that yearns for the opportunity for an analysis and criticism of popular
novels. These dissections of the anatomy
of novels will prove far more relaxed due to the absence of faculty and professors
scrutinizing every claim as it was furiously penned whilst drowning in a
plentitude of assignments and homework.
My hope is that the hermeneutics will be more compelling and well
thought out.
With the expression of these
sentiments, I would formally like to announce a new novel: Wonder by R.J. Palacio. For
the sake of a good story, I would like to relate how I discovered this book:
As
I was browsing the isles at Barnes and Noble, as I frequently do (much to the
distain of my mother, who says I purchase far too many books), I noticed a
rather unique blue eye staring at me from the shelf. This baby-blue, cartoon
eye (sitting all by itself) seemed not to look at me, but to the left of
me. I began to study the face with this
accompanying eye. It was a large white
egg-shaped head with a raven crop of hair atop, and biggish, half-moon ears on
the side of its head. There was no nose,
there was no mouth. The glare worn by
this bizarre face seemed completely oblivious that I—an avid reader—was taking
interest in this unusual book. It was
apathetic to me. It seemed to know something I did not. How can there be so much expression in a
crayon-style drawing of a sideways oval, with a round, colored circle
inside? Quite the mystery!
Why was the face so…strange? I quickly glanced at a canary circle adorning
the book’s cover. It read, “#1 New York Times Bestseller.” Obviously, I was not the only one challenged
by this unorthodox cover. Curiosity
overtook me, as this book and I prolonged this unabated staring contest. I wanted to snatch this book and force this
little face into telling me what it was staring at! I wanted it to tell me what it knew that I didn’t
(often books hold treasures of wisdom which, we ourselves do not possess). Finally,
I snatched the book from its relaxed resting place. The spine let out a low and long crack as I pulled
the book open, as if groaning after dozing on the shelf for so long. The hefty typeface revealed that this was a
children’s book, although, there were no pictures or illustrations. The fire of curiosity sputtered as I thought,
“I can’t read a children’s book! I might
as well start carrying around Dr. Seuss books in my arms. What would other people think!?!” I made up my mind that it would be improper
for me to read a children’s novel, no matter how charming it may be. I don’t have children. Men who read children’s books for pleasure
are usually creeps! Unfortunately, the
outlandish countenance before me would remain decidedly unexplained.
Before
returning the book to the shelf, I turned the book revealing the back cover. In bold, writing which, appeared snowy on the
baby blue background, it broadcasted to all, “I won’t describe what I look
like. Whatever you’re thinking, it’s
probably worse.” Along with this
haunting sentiment, were reviews from various magazines and other authors,
praising the book for its brilliance.
They call this a summary? How am I
supposed to understand anything from this vague and mystifying
announcement? This statement sparked
aflame the former fire of curiosity which probed me to pick up the novel. I just had to know what was in this book! Maybe it would be on Sparknotes and I could
satisfy this burning question. I flipped
through it again, “Oh, what the heck,” I thought to myself. As I secured the book in my arm, carrying my
backpack in the other, I marched, resolutely toward the register. As if to say, “Yes, I, a male college
student, am going to read this, a children’s novel, of which, I know virtually
nothing!! ‘Look on my [choice], ye
mighty, and despair!’ (Shelly, “Ozymandias”).”
However,
as I neared the check-out line, a female employee, who had formerly
complimented me on my choice of books and novels, was working the register. In a paralyzing panic, I veered into an
obscure Sci-Fi isle. My resolve eked out
in spurts, as my mind processed the possible conversation between the store
employee and me. In previous exchanges,
she had complimented me on my “sophisticated taste.” Could I now drag this heretofore unknown
text, plop it on the table and inaudibly say, “Well, I’m digressing in my
reading! I’ve gone from ‘sophistication’
to juvenile.” As this imaginative
panorama pathetically played out, I tossed the book on some random shelf, and
dashed from the store, realizing in my reveries with this children’s novel, I would
narrowly miss the Frontrunner Train.
The
ride home was plagued with thoughts of this book. I couldn’t shake this glowering face as it staunchly
declared, “I won’t describe what I look like.
Whatever you’re thinking, it’s probably worse.” Was this the echoing cry of some infantile
Quasimodo, facing a plot involving modernity and bullying? Was it even a person at all? Seeing as there was only one eye, piercing
every prospective reader as it passed by its gaze. Perhaps.
In any case, I could not focus on my raucous reading of War and Peace. War and
Peace, although fascinating, felt frigid with my feelings. Every time I finished a good and lengthy
read, I would hold the book horizontally to examine my progress. I had been grappling with this book for what
seemed like ages, and my advancement, while steady, was solemnly slow. “I deserve a break, don’t I? I mean, I’m nearly one-fourth of the way
through the novel. I could read something
else. But what if I could not begin
again? Better to push through than to
pass by without penetrating the main themes of the book.” I was ambivalent.
The
minute I arrived home, I flew up the stairs and ordered Wonder on Amazon. At last, I
would discover the mystery behind that sullen and complacent eye!
