Seriously, fuck Oprah. She should stick to slapping her name on (what I stubbornly perceive to be) glorified chick books. Maybe the occasional falsified memoir. But recently she’s been veering into the realm of actual literature, as evidenced by her selection of Cormac McCarthy’s The Road for her eponymous book club. Didn’t she learn her lesson with Faulkner? I know she is trying to promote literacy and all, but there are probably hundreds of thousands of copies of The Sound and the Fury gathering dust on the shelves of bored housewives scattered across the country.
I, for one, was hoping to purchase my copy of The Road sans Oprah’s gaping yonic seal of approval, thank you very much. Its mere presence implies a lack of credibility. Oprah’s O is a snarling toothless maw, swallowing everything in its path without balls for ballast. The weak are cradled in its womb in some sort of bizarre reverse gestation, only to be spit back out in an antiseptic birth devoid of blood or filth or free will.
And that brings us to McCarthy. What’s the matter? Having one of the best reviewed novels of 2006 wasn’t good enough for you? Whispers of Pulitzer floating around every corner clouding your judgment? I know somebody who is going to get kicked out of the reclusive old author’s club. I can only hope he is getting some perverse joy out of subjecting all those unsuspecting soccer moms to his patented brand of bleak, soul-crushing fiction.
Is it too much to ask for something bad to happen to Oprah? Can anyone stop this woman?
Dryings you the eye, madame. The world highest person officially is a market. That is good! Fort Xishun, the international celebrity and the hero to the porpoise * everywhere, finally marry.
