I’ve always had a lot of respect and admiration for legitimate intellectuals. I even wanted to be one, but then I became fond of alcohol and the Internet. So these days I just do what I can to occasionally be perceived as a legitimate intellectual.
A good pseudo-intellectual knows how to give off an air of erudition without having to put forth too much of an effort. You don’t want to have to show your work, or to interact for any length of time with brighter minds. It’s best just to keep your false brilliance as quiet and as superficial as possible.
A big part of that is knowing what books to carry around and display in public. You’re not going to impress any Mensa members or Rhodes scholars or Natalie Portman if you’ve got a Danielle Steele paperback popping out of your purse or satchel. Nor will you succeed in intimidating your friends and acquaintances if the novels prominently displayed on your living room bookshelf are more Clive Cussler than Franz Kafka.
For those of you smart enough to want to appear smart, below I’ve provided a list of novels to be seen with. Bonus points if you are seen actually READING them, but don’t feel compelled to do so – it can be seen as pretentious. (Note: While my list contains only works of challenging fiction, feel free to also be seen with works of challenging non-fiction. Sartre’s Being and Nothingness should be enough.)
1) Finnegan’s Wake. It took James Joyce 17 years to write it, and it would take you twice as long to read and comprehend it. Please check with your physician before attempting to actually read it, or even to lift it up. Best to just keep it on your reinforced coffee table and comment to friends about the intense rush of adrenalin you experience each time you finish it.
2) Gravity’s Rainbow. While this is one of the most difficult modern classics ever written, it’s just as easy as The Little Engine That Could to order online or pay for at the counter at your local bookstore. Simply inhaling near this novel has been known to raise one’s IQ by about 25 points. Picking it up and holding it can raise IQ by about 50 points. Ironically, opening it and reading each page can damage the brain to such an extent as to make others assume you are a hockey player or reality TV star.
3) The Stranger. No respectable pseudo-intellectual can say they haven’t read Camus, and saying you’ve read Camus really only counts if you say you’ve read this novel, which exemplifies the author’s penchant for things existential and absurd. But, again, talk can get you into trouble if you have the misfortune of meeting a true intellectual, thus it’s better to just be seen with the book and shut your mouth. That said, of all the novels listed here, The Stranger – which clocks in at a mere 123 pages (depending on the edition) – would likely be the easiest one to actually tackle. Just be sure to peruse the CliffsNotes summary of the book (or at least check out the Wikipedia entry for the novel) before engaging in any actual discussion.
4) The Brothers Karamazov. Notable admirers of this 19th century literary masterpiece by Fyodor Dostoevsky include Albert Einstein, Ludwig Wittgenstein and Martin Heidegger. Sigmund Freud called it “the most magnificent novel ever written.” So don’t be stupid – get possession of this book and publicly display it if you ever want to be considered a formidable pseudo-intellectual.
5) The Divine Comedy. If you can’t stand the pseudo-intellectual heat, then stay out of the circles of hell, which is what this epic medieval poem by Dante Alighieri explores. But don’t sweat it – just buy it and keep it in your guest bathroom.
6) War and Peace. If you need an explanation as to why this book is on this list, then I’m sorry but you simply are not cut out to be a pseudo-intellectual. Perhaps it would be better for you to lower the bar a bit and simply shoot for arrogant douchebag, which is nothing to be ashamed of.
7) Atlas Shrugged. I couldn’t get through even one chapter of this monster by Ayn Rand even when I was at the peak of my pseudo-intellectual powers back in college. All the more reason to let others see me holding it in bookstore aisles to this day. To help ensure it looks like I’m actually reading it, I’ll sometimes hide a copy of something by Dr. Seuss inside the cover.
8) The Sound and The Fury. What do you get when you take a post-modern stream-of-consciousness Faulkner novel featuring three different narrators (one of which is mentally disabled and narrates the way children color), and throw in a third-person section just for good measure? You get confused. But you also get a book that any serious pseudo-intellectual would WANT to be caught dead with.
9) The Castle. Sure, I could have gone with Metamorphosis – Kafka’s most famous novel (a puny novella, really) – but total predictability is not very becoming of a pseudo-intellectual. You’ve got to mix things up at least a little to keep your smarter acquaintances off-kilter and perhaps even compel them to question their own brilliance. While The Castle may not be Kafka’s most well known work, it’s arguably his most complex, humanistic and influential one – at least that’s what I’ve heard from people who’ve finished it.
10) Infinite Jest. This novel by the maniacally brilliant (though quite dead) David Foster Wallace is about everything, with an emphasis on drug addiction and, of course, tennis. It weighs in at just under a thousand pages that are followed by 388 endnotes – some of which have their own footnotes. Enough said.
While one should never judge a book by its cover, it’s okay to judge a person by the book covers they carry around. What difficult books that made you feel dumb do you occasionally display to artificially up your IQ? (Oh, and if you feel the books I’ve listed above were all relatively easy reads, you are obviously very smart and, thus, have no business reading my blog.)
Like any author who hasn’t totally given up, I occasionally share excerpts from my latest novel in hopes of sparking interest among folks who’ve yet to read it. (There are only about 14 people on the planet who haven’t purchased 'The Exit Man' yet…. wait, that was just an erotic dream I had.) For those of you who have read the book, consider this post an opportunity to experience some literary nostalgia.
Before we launch into the excerpt, allow me to provide a touch of context. 'The Exit Man' is about a party supply store owner named Eli Edelmann who lives a double life as a euthanasia specialist. That’s right, when he’s not selling balloons and paper hats, he’s helping terminally ill individuals end their life with dignity via helium inhalation. (Don’t blame my parents for the book – I was hugged plenty as a child.) The following excerpt is taken from Chapter 8, where Eli explains how he is compensated for his unique suicide assistance services.
Enjoy!
You are wondering about the money.
I, too, pondered the cash question considerably before ever setting foot in the Dignity Forum that first time. The question wasn’t “What should I charge?” but rather “Should I charge?”
The thought of stripping people of their life and their life’s savings repulsed me. Each client would have survivors to provide for, funeral services to cover, and an array of everyday bills to be paid. Not everybody had an extra twenty grand tucked away for a tidy departure. Not everybody was Sgt. Rush.
Besides, I was aiming to be a true exit artist, not a soulless suicide merchant. I couldn’t allow myself to be driven by financial gain. I couldn’t be about price points and payment methods.
Unless, of course, the client brought it up.
Without me saying a single word or dropping even the slightest hint, I found that nearly every exit candidate I approached asked something along the lines of, “How much would that cost?” during our initial discussion.
Each time the question was posed, I’d play it cool; careful not to blurt out a frightening sum that would end the conversation abruptly, but also careful not to brush the question off entirely to imply I worked strictly pro bono.
“I have no idea,” I’d say, “I hadn’t really thought about it. I don’t want to make this about money.”
Once you get labeled as shady, you are done in the suicide business.
If the candidate pressed on and insisted on compensating me to serve as a facilitator, I would timidly ask them, “What would you feel comfortable paying?” This worked wonders.
It was a “name your price” operation, and I was open to all offers. Have helium, will travel. Whenever I decided somebody was worth approaching, it meant the job was worth doing. Dollars had nothing to do with it.
That’s not to say that lots of them didn’t land in my pocket.
Most clients offered me between $10,000 and $20,000 for my services. Some opted to pay more. Much more. One threw down $50,000 for me to cure his osteosarcoma, insisting that fifty Gs was the going rate for a professional hit. You don’t argue with somebody who has intimate knowledge of the earning potential of assassins.
Not every job was a lucrative one. I administered a handful of exits for nothing or next to it, and was fine with that. I never passed judgment on those clients. How could I? Some simply had no funds due to months or years of expensive treatments and inadequate insurance. Others just didn’t think to offer anything. I certainly couldn’t be upset with them – it’s not like there is any common protocol or accepted etiquette when dealing with suicide assistants. You can find books and websites that touch on how to tip in Fiji or haggle in Hanoi, but you won’t find any that cover how to compensate your friendly neighborhood euthanasia man.
In defense of those who never thought to offer money, there is a fair amount of distraction when you are busy dying. When not consumed by the daily existential angst involved, there are friends and relatives to comfort, bucket list items to scratch off, bosses to verbally eviscerate, and past actions to woefully regret. You are permitted – nay, expected – to become self-absorbed and forgetful at death’s doorstep. And if, in the midst of all you’re dealing with, a stranger approaches to ask if you might be at all interested in having him help you shuffle off this mortal coil, nobody can judge you as inconsiderate or lecherous if the idea of payment never crosses your mind.
Besides, I was receiving more money than I would ever deserve from my higher-rolling, less distracted clients. I amassed a six-figure stash within my first four months. To complain about doing a few freebies now and again would have been the epitome of avarice.
Regardless of payment amount, each and every one of my clients received the exact same level of service and professionalism. Shelling out twenty or thirty grand didn’t get you a premium package featuring a pre-exit massage, a purer form of helium and a gold pendant. It’s not like I wore a tuxedo for those who met a minimum payment requirement, and dirty sweatpants for those who didn’t.
I was an equal opportunity executioner.
If you’re as dark and as deviant as I hope you are and want to read more excerpts from 'The Exit Man,' you can do so here.
One of my favorite quotes about fiction writing comes from the late, great W. Somerset Maugham:
“There are only three rules to writing a novel. Unfortunately, nobody knows what they are.”
I actually DO know what they are – at least the first one. The first rule of writing a novel is don’t talk about the rules of writing a novel. Or you might get punched….by me… if I’ve been drinking. And since I’m a writer, I’ve usually been drinking.
Rules were meant to be broken, especially in fiction. Novelists don’t like to be told what to do, which is why I didn’t become a successful doctor or lawyer or businessman like my parents urged me to. Hell, I didn’t even become a successful novelist. (I’m rambling here because I once had a writing teacher tell me NOT to.)
True, there are certain rules of writing that should always be followed, such as never start a sentence with a question mark unless you’re Spanish, and never start a sentence PERIOD if you plan to write a romance novel. Other than that, break all the writing rules you want – but only after you’ve learned all the rules and when it’s okay to break them. (I recommend reading and digesting The Elements of Style, and then, when you’re ready, putting it through a shredder.)
Before I go off on a tangent (not that there’s anything wrong with that on occasion), let me hone in on what I planned to discuss when I came up with the title listed above, which I’m well aware ends with a preposition and I couldn’t care less.
I know nothing ever gets resolved through drunken violence; however, here are four writing rules I would likely ask to step outside if I ever encountered them in a bar:
1) Never start a sentence with a conjunction (like ‘and,’ ‘or’ or ‘but’). Or you could cause serious damage to your manuscript. And that’s why rule-breaking writers like William Faulkner and Chuck Palahniuk have struggled to sell books and make a name for themselves, right? But I digress. The point is, break the hell out of this rule whenever doing so enhances the flow of your content. Trust your ear. As Elmore Leonard once quipped, “If it sounds like writing, I rewrite it. Or, if proper usage gets in the way, it may have to go. I can’t allow what we learned in English composition to disrupt the sound and rhythm of the narrative.”
And Elmore Leonard knows a thing or two about writing. But now I’m just gushing.
2) Show, don’t tell. While this is a good rule, it’s still deserving of a smackdown on occasion. Too many writers (and writing teachers) treat this one as a strict law rather than as a general guideline. The thing to remember is this: Story trumps all. Don’t let “show, don’t tell” put a damper on the emotional potency of your novel or short story. It’s better to write a ripping narrative that sings on the page and reveals intriguing character thoughts, ideations and background than to replace it with an interaction or dialogue intended to “show” the same but that that isn’t half as captivating or rhythmic. Over-explaining is bad, but so is over-exposing. Sometimes it’s better to spin some gorgeous yarn than to clumsily flash some t*ts.
3) Eliminate all adverbs. (Like clumsily.) True, writing “He closed the door loudly” is a hell of a lot weaker than “He slammed the door,” but that doesn’t mean every adverb must be stricken from a story. Sometimes an adverb can strengthen the meaning and power of a verb or prepositional phrase, as well as the cadence of a sentence. Even Stephen King, who has said, “The road to hell is paved with adverbs,” has been known to toss an -ly word into a tale on occasion. (Notice I didn’t say “occasionally). Of course, based on his books, Stephen King isn’t at all afraid of hell.
4) Never use a long word where a short word will do. Really? I’ve got an even better rule – never use “never.” Not everyone needs to write as economically as Hemingway and Bukowski. Who knows, perhaps if those two had been less terse and occasionally let a majestic quadruple syllabic word (or, dare I say it, an adverb) fly from their typewriter, they wouldn’t have felt so compelled to make love to a shotgun and a shot glass, respectively.
Agreed, tossing around five-dollar words all willy-nilly reeks of pomposity and makes the writer come off as pedantic. (Yes, I did that on purpose.) However, there are definitely times when a long word is simply the right word. As the Irish writer and editor Stan Carey says, “Long words may be beautiful, evocative and forceful; in the right place at the right time they can delight our ears, tickle our brains and stir our hearts.” What a scintillating… I mean brilliant… no, I mean scintillating quote.
Are there any classic writing rules that really get your goat, work your nerves or boil your blood? Share them in the ‘Comments’ section below. And feel free to begin one of the sentences in your comment with a conjunction. Or not.
If I had a dime for every character I’ve left stranded and underdeveloped in some story I started writing but later abandoned, I’d have enough money to make a good living as a writer.
It’s an awful feeling to bring someone into the world only to leave them high and dry in the middle of a wayward plot. Just ask Michael Lohan. Thank goodness we authors aren’t required to pay “character support” to all the fictional folks we create and end up dumping on the side of an unfinished manuscript. Otherwise, I’d be dead broke. Or a deadbeat.
A couple of years ago, I started writing a novel about an author whose unfinished fictional characters come to life to seek revenge on him, but, ironically, I ended up abandoning that story to write an entirely different one (my latest novel, The Exit Man). In other words, I abandoned several already-abandoned characters. Who DOES that? What kind of monster AM I?
The worst thing about abandoning fictional people is that, unlike in real life, the abandoned person can never move on. They’re just stuck in whatever locale and situation you left them in, for all eternity, with no hope for any personal growth or success or iPhone upgrades.
I can no longer live with the guilt. I’d like to offer a sincere apology to any and all characters I’ve ever created and left behind to rot in literary oblivion – even those who’ve existed only briefly in my head:
Dear abandoned characters,
I’m so sorry for what I've done to you. I had no right. You did nothing to deserve such a fate.
It’s not you, it’s me. I don’t always know what I’m looking for in a story or a character. Still, that’s no excuse for creating you and leading you on. If it makes you feel any better, I often end up killing off many of my characters in the books I DO finish writing, so at least you avoided that.
Maybe you’ll meet another writer who can give you a future or at least some sense of closure, though I highly doubt it, as I never share my unfinished manuscripts with anybody, and I don’t think my computer has ever been hacked by anyone besides the U.S. Government, and no one there knows how to write. I guess I could introduce you to some of my writer friends to see if there’s any interest, but let’s face it – nobody likes to be set up.
I know this hasn’t been easy on you. I abandoned many of you so early in the writing process, you don’t even know where you live or work, or who your parents are or if you have any siblings. Many of you don’t know what, if any, religion you follow or if you are gay or straight or what medications you may require. Some of you don’t even know your last name. And it’s all my fault. It’s no way for a writer to treat a fictional person. I know that, and I will never forgive myself for leaving you in such miserable limbo.
Most men spend the majority of their online time doing things like playing fantasy football and looking at porn. I spend the majority of mine researching how to quickly and discreetly murder people.
If you were to skim my recent Google search history, you’d find such entries as:
“cyanide poisoning”
“ricin poisoning”
“arsenic poising”
“easiest ways to kill”
“best murder methods”
“unconventional weapons”
“the CIA ‘heart attack’ gun”
While I quite enjoy conducting such research as a fiction writer, I’m also a little concerned that I’m afforded so much freedom to do so. I can’t help but think someone in the national security field isn’t doing their job. I mean, I’m not so well known a writer as to be given a free pass, carte blanche for gathering info on dark and deadly criminal pursuits. Stephen King, James Patterson, Stieg Larsson (if he were still alive), Patricia Cornwell, Michael Connelly – those writers should be allowed to bypass any and all red flags when conducting online research, but not little ol’ me.
It’s less likely I’m being given a pass and more likely my Google activity hasn’t even registered on any security agency's or investigative bureau's radar. But that’s even more concerning, as it leads me to assume there are plenty of other people getting away with similar disturbing Google searches for non-fictional purposes. I’m talking about people who intend on actually carrying out the same sort of sick and twisted stuff I merely intend on incorporating into a novel. There are a lot of really messed up people in this world, and the authorities need to realize some of those people aren’t even writers.
Just one call or letter or email to me from the FBI or the NSA (or even my local police department) voicing their concern over my recent Google searches would do a lot to put my mind at ease. Just one knock on my door from a special agent would make me feel safer and more secure. It would keep me from worrying about all the aspiring sadists and assassins and terrorists roaming free in our society with little or no intention of writing a book.
So come on, FBI and NSA, get with the program. Pay more attention to what I’m up to online – at least until I win a Pulitzer Prize or the PEN/Faulkner Award. Then perhaps you can let down your guard.
