Don’t Pass The Box Of Tissues!
Sad life stories are nothing more than a cheap attempt by the author to sell their novel
There is nothing I despise more than the sombre writings of the wretched people of this world. The people who whose lives’ have been blighted by suffering and whose tales of adversity will frequently render many an individual teary eyed.
I have no sympathy for the author’s of such books, who can spin a tale better than most spiders can spin a web. As Thomas Carlyle once said, “a well-written life is almost as rare as a well-spent one,” and these stories of how the victims of vile villains vicissitudes vary excite me as much as having a bowel extraction.
Unfortunately the number of people with horrific tales of adversity who are now publishing books seems to be growing more quickly than the Australian economy at the moment. Auto-biographies written about the author’s experiences in a foreign country, such as Mao’s Last Dancer have been enormously successful, selling thousands of copies and making the author as famous and wealthy as most TV stars.
However, after the perceived success of some authors, the market has become swamped with these types of books, as writers seek to capitalise on this fertile niche in the market. Now these novels appear to be as ubiquitous as the very air we breathe. Take for instance the Writers Festival that was held a fortnight ago in Brisbane and saw some of the most respectable international writers in the world come together. There were more sad stories there than in the emergency department of a busy hospital.
Elizabeth Kim was one of the writers at this festival, and is well known for her auto-biography Ten Thousand Sorrows, about her turbulent and impoverished childhood in Korea. However today, after publishing her memoirs, she is shaping up to be one creative cash cropped Korean character indeed.
She describes her novel as a memoir “about a cataclysmic event... the killing of my mother by members of her family when I was a child.” Miss Kim uses more emotive language in her tale than The Bold and the Beautiful can fit into an entire season. Her first words of the prologue stated: “I don’t know how old I was when I watched my mother’s murder, nor do I know how old I am today.” Call me a cynic but these kinds of comments are intended to sell more books than act as a profound reflection on the author’s part. Don’t pass the tissue box just yet!
The way that we are so drawn to books that upset and disturb us reminds me of the song I Don’t Like the Drugs but the Drugs like me by Marilyn Manson. From the first line you are addicted to the drama of the author’s experiences, which is sometimes more potent than any drug. The blur of Miss Kim’s book acts as the first hit, stating how the author’s “American features doomed her in racist Korea.” From then on your average Western reader is hooked, coming back again and again for more, no matter how repulsive or sickening it becomes.
Let’s be honest. It’s not that we like what we’re reading, but the fact that we enjoy being reassured by the author of how superior our “civilised” Western culture is. These books are inherently racist as they are intended to undermine and judge the culture of a foreign nation. Most of us seem to love Mao’s Last Dancer simply because it confirms our preconceived notions of what life in Communist China is really like. There is more poverty and hardship to be found in this autobiography than in any book published by Charles Dickens. Yet somehow I doubt Li Cunxin would have sold nearly as many copies if he had titled his book: “My Life in Wonderful Communist China.”
The same applies to Elizabeth Kim. While her memoir is indeed a very sad and emotive book, packing more punch than a kilo of chopped onions, it nevertheless begs the question of why she wrote about something so obviously painful to her and made it public. She replied how it was not her initial intention to write this novel, “but someone who knew something of my life story approached me.” That didn’t happen to be the publishing company did it Miss Kim?
Maybe I’m just being cynical again, but I’ve never been able to help looking around for a coffin whenever I spelt flowers in the past. Getting emotional over a book that has obviously been written for profit makes as much sense as crying at a stranger’s funeral.
The influx of novels into the market describing tales of appalling adolescent affairs through to the trials and tribulations of adulthood is enough to make one weep. The personal stories of individuals from foreign cultures may thaw the coldest hard, but not mine. This style of writing is yet another way for publishes to do what they do best with books – sell them.
While your average reader may find these tales of woe disturbing, my only despair is if my next project is to analyse another one of these books. Yet with so many on the market, maybe I will need that box of tissues after all. §
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