Years ago, I read the story “A good Man is Hard to Find“ at the recommendation of a friend. I remember staying up late to finish it, and fighting the urge to call my friend to berate her for failing to warn me about the story’s brutal impact.

Now I’ve just read Flannery O’Connor’s second novel, “The Violent Bear it Away“ with no prompting from anyone and no one to blame for my distress except for the writer’s merciless vision and brilliant prose. Her writing is peculiar, terrifying, and exhilarating. (If you’re thinking about writing fiction, it will certainly take the wind out of your sails.)

Flannery O’Connor is now officially my idol. She is fearless in going after her characters and relentless in probing their twisted relationships with god and/or morality.

Here’s what the poet Robert Lowell says: ”Much savagery, compassion, farce, art, and truth have gone into these stories. O’Connor’s characters are wholeheartedly horrible, and almost better than life. I find it hard to think of a funnier or more frightening writer.” 

I could not agree more. If you’re looking for a book to remove you from your everyday reality and you’re not afraid to explore the dark Southern Gothic heart of the heart of darkness, you could not do better than “The Violent Bear it Away.”  

Let me know if you read it, or if you have any recommendations for me.

61 year old fatwa-survivor Salman Rushdie parties with actress girlfriend Pia Glenn, 32.

She admits that she’s impressed by Rushdie’s Booker Prize. He, on the other hand, ———————- (complete this sentence.)

Yesterday, I came across a delightful discussion about books at Salon.com . People were invited to recall a book they really hated.

It was a funny and interesting thread, which I would like to copy (since that’s the sincerest form of flattery, Salon.com!)   I was surprised that more people didn’t name Moby Dick. As I have already mentioned somewhere, Moby Dick is my own Moby Dick.

I loved that someone asked if he was allowed to hate a book he’d never read. He wanted to hate the work of Charles Bukowski, and I know what he means. I hate every book by Chuck Palahniuk, without having read them.   So hating a book Just Because is okay with me.

I will begin with “The Awakening” by Kate Chopin.   I hate that book. I can’t imagine anyone not hating it. And yet it is often assigned reading in high school. Is it because teachers want to make sure that guys grow up to hate “women writers?” I felt so sorry when my oldest son had to read it. I assured him that it was not representative of good fiction written by women. I probably said something like, “Oh god, what a fucking awful book! Ugh, they’re trying to torture you!”

I hated that book because its prose is so leaden and tedious. I can still recall the hideous yellow cover of the paperback after all these years.

I also hate Ulysses, and anyone who says how great it is. Not that I’ll ever read it.

Okay, does anyone have a book to revile?

It’s pretty stupid when you read about it, and now I’m regretting my snobbery. One guy in the essay is repelled by anyone who claims to be reading Samuel Beckett. But Beckett is so good! Why shouldn’t one be allowed to read him without being considered an asshole?

Personally, I hold my greatest contempt for anyone who even talks about reading Ulysses. I know they’ve never read it, or else they tried and failed. I’m not crazy about anyone who loves Cormac McCarthy, but I’m aware that some otherwise great people appear to worship him. People who read or mention Anais Nin are also a red flag. It makes me feel sad for them.

The people in this essay seem to feel superior to everyone whose taste isn’t as highbrow as their own, but that is a problem for anyone trying to maintain their sense of elitist entitlement. For me, it’s a distrust of pretentiousness. Even a whiff of it will annoy me. At the same time, I would be hesitant about anyone who reads best-sellers.

I’ve solved this problem somewhat by not reading any more. I still buy books, but I have no attention span. I read book reviews and feel nostalgic about the transcendent pleasure of good fiction.

I recently found my self pretending to know the works of Gogol, rather than admit my ignorance. I feel I should get credit for Gogol, since I’ve read my share of Tolstoy. And I once became infatuated with someone because he loved “The Pigeon” only to find out later that he’d never read it.

I worry that I may be losing my edge, since I’m not as disdainful as the book snobs in the essay. I used to ruin many a dinner party by arguing about books. However, I do think it’s funny that there’s a dating site for fans of Ayn Rand. Ugh! They deserve each other!

I always have a problem separating the art from the artist (i.e. the artist from his life.) This has come up for years now when the subject is Woody Allen. I was so pissed off with him after the Soon-Yi Incident that for Christmas that year, my husband sent me a card “from” Woody Allen, with a personal apology. No dice. I haven’t forgiven Woody, because that would be shallow, but I find I am still able to enjoy Annie Hall without feeling too much moral indignation.

One school of thought is to accept and appreciate the art (or of course disappreciate it) independently from any judgment on the artist himself. In other words, Joni Mitchell has written some beautiful songs, even though she is a complete asshole. It makes perfect sense! But I can’t seem to do it. Ever since I read an interview with her in Rolling Stone, at least 100 years ago, in which she heaps praise upon herself as a brilliant visual artist, she has made me sick. Just a few months ago, in Starbucks, I picked up the Joni Mitchell edition of their CD series dedicated to an artist’s selection of musical influences. Joni Mitchell is the only artist who has had the temerity to include one of her own songs! What an asshole!!!   She is ruined for me forever. Sorry!

What about Roald Dahl? As a child, I loved his short stories. They were so creepy! Who doesn’t love Roald Dahl for god sake? But years ago, when a biography revealed him to have been a horrible father, among other failings, I could never extinguish this reprehensible image of him. Same story with R. Crumb. Seeing the movie “Crumb” the first time, I cried at the tragedy of his crazy brothers. The second time, I couldn’t avoid cringing at R’s coldness toward his son: He says openly that the only person he’s every truly loved is his little daughter, Sophie. Where does that leave your son, you fucking bastard, is my feeling toward Crumb. Yeah, yeah, great cartoons, but what a waste as a human being. He won’t even let his son touch his stupid records.

Today, I read a horrifying account of the life of Bertrand Russell. The least of his crimes against his family members is that he decided to make his 4 year old son John learn to swim by repeatedly throwing him into the ice cold sea. He did this until the child learned that his sobbing was pointless. John later developed schizophrenia. It only gets worse. If you really like Bertrand Russell, don’t even consider reading any recent biographies.

I am so grateful that Patti Smith continues to hold her own as a person. Thank you Patti for living a life that measures up to your art….maybe even surpasses it! Neil Young has done pretty well too, until this afternoon. “He” posted a bulletin on mySpace that on its surface is a noble anti-war entreaty, but turns out to be an effort to sell tickets for his tour with Crosby Stills and Nash. It’s not the worst thing, but it’s not something I wanted to see, either.   If you’re reading this Neil, please watch yourself! Don’t screw things up for me like your friend Joni did.