Literary Fiction

I am currently reading Hemingway, the title of the particular novel is eluding me for some reason, though the content is fresh in my mind as newly fallen snow. I must say, after having just explored some work of John Irving's, namely A Prayer For Owen Meany, it is refreshing to experience a new style. Honestly, after completing that 620 page monster I felt as if I'd vomit if I saw one more fucking hyphen or fully capitalized sentence. Already, I can just tell Hemingway's habit of forgetting about a little thing called a 'period' in his paragraph-length sentences will probably get to me by the end of this book as well.

Why is it all 'literary novelists' write their 'brilliant' works of art embedded with oft-times irritating, yet ingenious patterns? I do not deny or wish to debate the obvious skill and imagination it must take to create a novel with such layers of meaning. However, wouldn't we all just rather read American Psycho? Literary fiction is like voluntary homework. They are generally written with all of the 'strategies', 'devices', and 'styles' the english language has to offer; they are so riddled with layer upon layer of hidden meanings, symbols and possible interpretations that they lack absolutely nothing. But entertainment value.

The way our society has evolved has made that one seriously lethal fault. You could put the secret to life, next week's lottery numbers and a map to the Well of Youth in a book and no one in this day and age would read it, if it was written by Mark Twain. Why? Because life is too short to waste it reading a boring ass, moldy book. Or so is the common thought.

Personally, my taste in all things is both varied and eclectic. That includes my taste for literature. However, the reading of a work of literary fiction is no small task. It takes time, patience and a bit of a masochistic edge to endure such a daunting task. Not an activity I can enjoy so much as of late; when time is a thing of mythical wonder and patience is spread so very thin. Perhaps my friend Hemingway will help ease the stresses of being alive and not indulging in a murderous rampage. Irving sure didn't

“Happiness in intelligent people is the rarest thing I know.”- Ernest Hemingway