:: the fault in our extremely loud wallflowers ::

I read stephen chbosky's perks of being a wallflower on tuesday.

it really bugs me how every time I write a blog post I almost invariably start with "I" (meaning the pronoun, not the letter, or it would even more almost invariably be "i" --see the beginning of this paragraph). I suppose this is my blog, and I'm basically the only one who reads it, but still. it's like I owe it to the universe to focus a little less on me.

^not my point.

so, chbosky.

there's this one part in the book where protagonist charlie is given rand's the fountainhead by his english teacher, who tells him to read it "as a filter, not a sponge", which our genius gifted mangenue charlie doesn't understand, despite being ~16 and theoretically grasping hamlet and a separate peace. but okay. fortunately, charlie's reader ((YOU)) is at least as intellectual as he is, because the reader gets it. YEAH, charlie. DUH. go you, reader. give yourself a little pat on the back. much intellect. very insight. wow.

yeah, so the book bugged me. bugged me like extremely loud and incredibly close bugged me (although that, not nearly so much), and other similar books that I know I've read but have fortunately forgotten.
   in these books, there's always a character -- usually the first-person protagonist narrator -- who is rather young and, while somewhat naive and innocent, is simultaneously wise beyond their years (in an inexplicable, 100% unrealistic way). they accept tragedy and trauma and love and life and facts about all these things with an unshakeable, pragmatic calmness (as part of their childish wisdom and maturity) and say things that produce strong reactions from adults, though for the life of them the precocious prodigies can't figure out why -- why the laugh or cry or stare? just tellin' it like it is, right?

charlie in particular uses childishly simple language (which chbosky/charlie attempts to justify by saying basically, why use complex words for the sake of complex words? --which I agree with, but he misses completely that complex words are for complex thoughts, and if our charlie is so intellectually and emotionally gifted, he'll not only know and understand the words, he'll be able to use them appropriately and easily in a sentence).
   this language thing especially bothered me, not just because the writing itself was rough and badly modulated and...not well-done; but because charlie is supposed to seriously turn 16 during the book, and I kept thinking of him as about 11 or 12. it was honestly, truly confusing when it mentioned him driving ("but he's only 12! oh, right"), while his not-dating sam made complete sense ("she's like 18 and he's like 12, so this is a hero-worship sort of crush. ...they're making out?! oh. right"). I attribute that confusion to the language, because charlie just sounds so young it really made the book hard to get into. jonathan foer was at least interesting and easy to read.
   plus, charlie's attributes as explained by charlie -- whose paper musings the reader can of course interpret but that confuse poor charlie's innocently straightforward brain -- are really not that spectacular and unusual. plenty of people enjoy reading & thinking, which is basically what sets charlie apart in this book. that, and the fact that he is so loving and accepting of gay people and their serially-dating sisters. charlie should just go date hazel grace (oh, there's another one. which did I hate more: chbosky or john green? hard call. at least john green is actually clever and well-read).
 
these are books written to make the reader feel educated and intellectual and high-and-lonely-destiny, but really these are things we all feel, all identify with, all literary references we recognize. which is why these books are famous. people aren't so insensitive and uncultured as people like to think. so I read wallflower, or TFIOS, or extremely loud, or maybe even tell the wolves I'm home, and (am supposed to) go, "wow, charlie is just like me what similarity I'm lonely too oh this book moved me 'in that moment we were infinite' such insight *small tear*" but I think it makes everyone feel that way.
   (go back to john green: remember the unfinished book that is hazel's driving force for the whole amsterdam trip? that book is represented like these books are supposed to feel: a hidden treasure, belonging only to the reader -- practically undiscovered by the rat-racing public, its depths plumbed only by YOU and related to on a deeper level because of the Personal Trials and Heartbreaks you in particular have experienced. like that boy you liked in 6th grade who ended up moving away before you screwed up enough courage to talk to him, and you now live every day with regret. you could never have cried so much over poor gus if you hadn't felt hazel's heartrending pain in your own life.)
   to rephrase: the emotional bond the general You feel with the book seems personal and intimate. 'I had such an experience reading this book; it's my book; it changed my life.' but you don't realize that it's calculated to make literally everyone who reads it feel just as connected, and really your experience is only a fluffy emotive tear-jerky fakeness that has given you no new ideas about the world, just played off of your warm fuzzy feels.
 
who am I to say what the author is trying to do, of course. and again, this is my personal feeling, which is not-universal in exactly the way I've been criticizing; also, my personal feeling is usually to be/do/say/think the opposite of anyone and anything I feel is scorn-worthy and beneath me. oh look, see how different I am from the masses. I didn't like this bestseller. whoop, whoop, what discernment.  but that's how I feel about these types of books, and my immediate reaction is NOPE, NOT GONNA FEEL IT. TRY TO MAKE ME.
   chbosky did have a few interesting sentences in there, but for me it was more along the lines of, "well, I get what he's trying to say & I hear that; but I think it's..." oversimplified. trying too hard. saccharine. trite.

I guess that's what I feel about a lot of "literature" written recently. it's trite. it tries too hard. too many people want to do something new and revolutionary -- why can't you do something old, well? a lot of the really good books that people still love and read and write about and assign for school were quietly good. they weren't trying to make! a! statement! (or revolutionize present-tense writing, a trend that is quite aggravating to my english-speaking ears. STOP IT MORGENSTERN ONLY REMARQUE CAN DO THIS). they just stated. and I don't mean just dickens and austen, necessarily -- although austen was incredible in pointing out societal concerns and issues in her societal-microcosms-as-polite-drawing-rooms. hey, include greats from the past 100 years: everyone's favorite fitzgerald. jane smiley. toni morrison. kathryn stockett. they don't have to bash you over the head with their message (...although they can be heavy-handed, yes); for the most part, they just point to it and let you figure it out for yourself.

really, it's worse when the book's message itself doesn't resonate with me, either. these amazing, revelatory, brilliant ideas and questions and thoughts the kids come up with all sound exactly the same, just in different vague, sort-of-poetic ways. like the author -- each author -- thought of an idea and muddled it with fancy words to make it sound deep, but really be easily understandable, so that whoever is reading feels like they have a depth just like the main character. oh, I'm so alone, so misunderstood, so different, so unique and special. but this author/character/book gets me, speaks to me, knows what I'm going through.
   dude. everyone feels alone, misunderstood, different, and special. why do you think the social media are so successful??

I wish I were more articulate and took better notes. upshot: modern lit just doesn't do it for me. I need to read more non-fiction and stop taking myself so seriously.