Whatever happened to good old-fashioned books about dysfunctional American families headed by strong sensible women who spend every afternoon at 3 watching Oprah?
I’m not really a literary snob in the mold of Meghan Gurdon where I ponder an ancient weather-beaten copy of De Laclos that once belonged to a swashbuckling great-uncle who fought in the Boer War and later died in a drinking contest with Hemingway, but not before he invented the drink coaster and bikini waxing, but I would have thought that Oprah would have learned her lesson with The Corrections.
I’m all for people reading One Hundred Years of Solitude, but… well, expect to find thousands of copies of the Oprah edition at your neighborhood used bookstore in the coming months.
Only the first seventy pages will be ‘used’.
(Disclaimer: One Hundred Years of Solitude is my second favorite novel, surpassed only by The Origin of the Brunists)