Might vs Write

The, ahem, best American fiction from the last 25 years has been established for us by the New York Times. Awfully decent of them. Beloved by Toni Morrison comes in over the finish line in first place. Delillo's Underworld and Cormac McCarthy's Blood Meridian come in hot on its heels. And twenty-two ran. I haven't read Beloved, and now I'm strangely tempted not to. Underworld is a good'un, though I think I prefer White Noise. It's more concise, more of a deft rabbit punch of satire. But it's Philip Roth who dominates the list with a total of six novels. I guess that means that while Morrison wins for speed, Roth triumphs for pacing. Or something.

I get awfully uncomfortable when literature merges too closely with athletics. The sight of scorecards in the literary arena makes my neck constrict. I think the urge to determine a first place comes from a bad place in the American psyche. The word "bully" comes to mind.

The Modern Library's list of 100 best novels gives me a similar twinge, although I'll admit I do glance at it occasionally when looking for something new to read. And the discrepancy between the board's list and the reader's list is telling. There's a suspicious amount of Scientology and Objectivism heading the reader's list. And high atop the board's list is Joyce's Ulysses, which, though one of my favorite books of all time mostly because of the sheer magnitude of it, isn't one I'd necessarily recommend to all that many people. Whereas book number two, The Great Gatsby, is more likely to affect a greater amount of readers.

What I'm feebly getting at (I think) is that making a list of the year's best whatevers can be constructive - but numbering the list is not.