I don't tend to read Oprah books. Something about the mass commercialism of books, tied in with the overwhelming power she has scares me. When she began selecting classic books, I appreciated her a bit more, but I still avoided the books because of their colorful Oprah stamps. I am happy that she's getting people to read good literature.
When she announced her next selection would be James Frey's A Million Little Pieces, my instinct was to stay away. I've read loads of memoirs before, and something about a rehab memoir didn't appeal to me. But then I read Hillary Frey's snobbish review of the book on Salon and knew I had to give it a shot. When literature snobs attack a book so gruesomely, I know it's going to be good. Perhaps the best irony is that Salon published a rave review of the book just two years earlier. Apparently getting into Oprah's club changes all that.
While I know Frey's book doesn't need more promotion, it deserves it. It's really a fantastic ride. Plus, after reading the book, I want to make sure Frey is successful because he seems like an interesting and likeable guy. I'm not saying anything more, just go and find out for yourself.
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I get terribly depressed when Oprah puts a book that I love on her list. The damn little Oprah Book Club sticker devalues the book in my eyes. I'm with you, man.
God save the day that she discovers the greatness of Vonnegut. I can only hope that she dies before that day comes.
Not that I want Oprah dead.
Unless she's reading Vonnegut.
Not that I would be the one to make her dead.
But if it was by natural causes, in her sleep, perhaps with Steadman by her side...
I should shut up now.
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