Finally, it's my turn to write an Oprah-related post!
Yesterday, the Queen of All Media announced that the new selection for her uneven book club is "The Road," by Cormac McCarthy. I'm quite a fan of McCarthy, whom I picture as a steel-toed boot-wearing, tobacco-chewing, shady past-having good old boy who sees the world through death-colored glasses. His "Blood Meridian" was called one of the best novels of the past 25 years by the New York Times. This is true. It's also true that the book features babies hanging from trees.
"The Road," which I've not yet read, is typically bleak and beautifully-written according to all the reviews. It's a tale of a father and son trying to survive in a post-apocalyptic America. I seriously doubt that it has an uplifting ending.
I'm a little perturbed that a McCarthy book will have an Oprah seal of approval stamped on the covers of its next edition. This really dilutes his subversiveness, his badass-ness. It will be hard to fancy oneself an outlaw creating catastrophic violence along the U.S.-Mexico border when Oprah is encouraging stay-at-home moms across the nation to read the same books I do. But I suppose I should cast off this intellectual elitism and be glad people are reading literary fiction at all. After all, I wouldn't turn down the stratospheric book sales that come along with Oprah's endorsement.
One thing's for certain: Oprah's interview with McCarthy is going to be some delightfully uncomfortable television. The guy's old school, a recluse, and certainly won't take kindly to being asked any questions about his personal life. Set your DVRs, kids: this could be more squirm-inducing than Oprah's on-air chastising of James Frey.
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