Feeling Cranky? Could Be a Diet of Bad Books

Good writing--like good food, air and water--is sustenance for both body and soul, while bad writing can make some people physically and emotionally ill. Being one of those who can severely suffer under bad writing, I will list the most common symptoms:

1) irritability

2) sloth

3) inability to concentrate

4) depression

5) ill will toward mankind

If you have suffered any of these symptoms for reasons unknown to you, chances are you are reading a bad book (or column!). It took me years to isolate the cause of these feelings, and only began to dawn on me after decades of reading that many of the dreariest passages in my life coincided with the ingestion of bad literature.

Some books should come with the little orange warning pictures they put on prescription drug bottles, of the yawning, droop-eyed patient. WARNING: MAY CAUSE YOU TO FEEL HORRIBLE. DO NOT ATTEMPT TO DRIVE OR OPERATE HEAVY MACHINERY OF LIFE WHEN READING THIS BOOK.

Conversely, reading a good book is just as invigorating to our biologies as the aforementioned good food, air, water and, I would add, heavyweight championship bouts. Quality writing is a staple for life, not a mere nutritional supplement. Side-effects of partaking of this, the fifth basic food group, include:

1) alertness

2) energy

3) compassion for mankind

4) feelings of generosity and gratitude

5) heightened sensual perceptions

The truth of this theory was once again demonstrated, at least for me, while reading the latest novel by MacDonald Harris, “A Portrait of My Desire” (Simon & Schuster).

It is completely incidental that Harris is an Orange Countian of many years, and that his novel is set in a town that is clearly based on Laguna Beach, in a community recognizable as Emerald Bay. This book is a truly hearty literary feast, not the kind of regional dish that loses its taste once you’ve ID’d all the places in the book you’ve been to or passed by.

It’s not a “who’s who” novel either, because the author--with that alchemy common to great writers--makes the characters more interesting than a lot of real people we know. This is literature on a broadly human scale, literature at its finest.

I’m not a book reviewer, so I’m not going to synopsize the story, attempt to weight Mr. Harris’ intention against his accomplishment, or make any of the banal observations that seem to pass as criticism in this day and age. Neither will I stoop to the level of “consumer guide” and beg you to buy this book. Why take my word on anything?

I will say that this is one of the most keenly observed, beautifully written and cleverly orchestrated novels I’ve read in years. The story is told with a cool, dispassionate, but very loving eye for peoples’ strengths and foibles. It is one of the most suspenseful books I can remember. It is tender, incisive and humorful, yet startlingly and beautifully violent.

From a technical point of view the sleight-of-hand Harris accomplishes with chapters 12 and 13 is nothing less than thrilling. Harris hits his notes faultlessly, like a singer with perfect pitch. Best of all, this book scores an absolute zero in what I call the Cheat Factor, which is simply an author’s promise to deliver more than he or she is able to. And there you have it.

But any columnist can throw adjectives at any book, movie or event, so I’m now going to up the ante and prove how good this book is, by way of returning to the original hypothesis of this piece--namely, that good literature is good for you. The following is a true account of my reading of “A Portrait of My Desire.”

April 8--Began book. Opening chapter is about grief, a topic with which most of us are intimately familiar. Harris nails not only grief over a loved one’s death, but the rocky road we survivors walk while trying to “get over it.” Do we want to get over it, really? Stayed up late and had no interest in drinking too much wine. Slept seven hours instead of usual nine. Woke up refreshed.

April 9--The book’s protagonist, still in mourning, is interviewing “home managers” to help him keep his house, raise his son, ease the burdens in his womanless domain. He is guilty, confused. I feel neither, so I make a tennis date for that afternoon with my arch-nemesis and for the first time in my life, beat him in a set! My serves are great. His brooding deeply satisfies me. Can’t wait to get back to the book.

April 10--Before resuming reading, I managed a quick housecleaning, returned about 30 calls that had piled up over the past few days and had the courage to open a stack of mail over a foot high. Paid bills happily. Felt centered, capable, yet somehow calm. Showered thoroughly; flossed. Book is simply too much now. Protagonist’s general good will and judgment seem for naught, as he digs himself deeper into a hole that I wish I could pull him out of. How can this guy write so well?

April 11--Had no desire at all to read book. Instead, took a long hike in the hills, planted some flowers, washed truck and kicked serious butt in tennis class. Ate heartily, drank in moderation and slept like a used bird dog.

April 12--Got up early to finish book. Haven’t read such a complete, surprising, satisfying ending in decades. Feel somehow wiser, purged, enlightened, educated. Following this, three people remarked that I had:

1) lost weight

2) gotten more tanned

3) obviously taken a vacation

4) seemed happier

All of the above was true, more or less. And though attributable to good writing, this seemed too difficult a thing to explain. I smiled and tried to accept the compliments with graciousness, knowing I was little more than a reflection, happy for the secret I shared with the last book I’d read.