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you sitting down? Good. I have something important to tell you.
Here goes.
I. Don't. Like. Dave. Eggers.
There. I've said it. I don't like Dave Eggers. If your first
reaction is shock or disbelief, believe me, I understand. I spent
far, far too much time and energy trying not to believe it myself.
But please, before you jump to conclusions, hear me out.
I don't know why I don't like him, if deep down inside I chose
to be "different," or if, as some people claim, one's
opinion about Dave Eggers is genetically fixed at birth. I only
know how I feel, and that ever since I started being honest about
my feelings, I've never been happier in my entire life. From this
day forward, the charade is over – I am who I am.
I would probably still be living a lie, though, if it weren't
for one customer, one brave, beautiful soul who dared to be himself
– no matter what – and inspired me to do the same.
It all happened right here at Powell's. I was working my least
favorite shift, Saturday afternoon at the front information desk.
The store was packed. There was a long line of customers looking
for answers to their book questions. I was already exhausted.
After helping one particularly persistent woman track down the
only book on Chihuly
still missing from her collection, a young hipster stepped up
to the counter – "neo-retro" trousers, secondhand
"bowling" shirt, meticulously unkempt hair, one of those
scooter things tucked under his arm: "I'm looking for a book
by some guy named Rick
Moody. He's one of those McSweeney's writers."
While I was desperately trying to hide my distaste behind a painful,
ear-to-ear smile, the next customer in line, an attractive young
man wearing a Banana Republic T-shirt hugging a pair of perfect,
personal-trainer biceps, a designer baseball cap turned backwards,
and a tiny gold earring in his left ear (or was it the right?),
said – to no one in particular, as though it were the most
natural thing in the world – "Dave Eggers? How twee."
A hush fell over the room. A young girl snickered. A man in
a Carharts jacket scowled. Everything seemed to be moving in slow
motion. Terrified to draw attention to myself – I'd just
flushed scarlet – but unable to stop, I glanced up. Looking
directly at me, square in the eye – who me? – Banana
Republic winked. Oh my God! Could he tell? Was I that obvious?
Had he seen the copy of The
Problem of the Puer Aeternus I had hidden in the bottom
of my J. Crew bag? I may not like Dave Eggers, but I'm
just like everybody else. I'm normal. I'm not like that
guy! Don't you believe me?
I could feel the whole room staring at me. What should I do?
What if my mother found out? What would my manager say? Could
I lose my job?
But then something unexpected happened. Out of the corner of my
eye I noticed the nervous, sloe-eyed expression on the hipster's
face – he didn't have a clue. Suddenly it was as if a great
weight I hadn't even known existed were lifted from my shoulders.
Banana Republic refused to let this unwashed doofus dictate his
life. Why should I?
Simple. I shouldn't.
As though from a great distance, I watched myself turn to my
customer: "Rick Moody? Right. You'll find him in the M's,
just before
Toni Morrison. You know, the Oprah
author?" Then, as though all eyes weren't on me, I put out
the Info Closed sign, slipped Banana Republic my phone number,
and took my break. I was reborn.
Before we go any further, though, I'd like to clarify a few points.
Contrary to popular belief, non-Eggerites (which we prefer to
the misnomer, anti-Eggerites) have nothing against Dave Eggers,
nor the people who like him. We have no desire to convert others
to our views (those stories about the van are just rumors). We
don't even dispute Eggers's many wonderful qualities or his undeniable
talents – who are we, after all, to contradict Michiko
Kakutani?
Eggers's number one bestselling memoir, A
Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius, is the most
talked about book since Angela's
Ashes (don't even get us started), and McSweeney's,
Eggers's quarterly, is without a doubt the most original
and inventive literary phenomena since the cut-up. McSweeney's
has published the work of a remarkably accomplished list of writers,
including Denis
Johnson, Haruki
Murakami, Lydia
Davis, Jonathan
Lethem, Susan
Minot, and, you guessed it, Rick
Moody. Even more astonishing, rumor is that each of these
writers was so eager to be published in McSweeney's, they
did it for free.
Even so, no matter how much we try, non-Eggerites still don't
understand the attraction (and a good number of us worship Murakami).
Literary contributions and accomplishments aside, Eggers's
excessive sincerity, excruciating self-consciousness, and obsession
with minutia, his effort to elevate digression to a form of art
and to make cleverness an end in itself, just don't interest us.
We respect your right to delight in eight point type.
Why can't you then respect our freedom to, say, disdain
precious clipart, or to avoid Eggerheads (Eggers's disturbingly
enthusiastic groupies – talk about twee). And tell me, who
is hurt if I loathe Iceland?
The truth is, as the saying goes, there's just no accounting
for taste, and, however much we may wish it away, a certain percentage
of the population simply finds Dave Eggers distasteful. And it's
high time our right to not like whomever we choose, whenever we
choose, was respected.
Now, I've started a new life. It true, some of my "friends"
dumped me when they found out. Sometimes I wondered whether the
ones who reacted the strongest weren't simply running from their
own non-Eggerite tendencies. It's sad, really. But though it was
hard at first, when all was said and done, I had gained so much
it was well worth it. I am now part of the loving, supportive
community of non-Eggerites who live open, dignified lives right
here in this city. There's even a bar that's openly owned and
operated by non-Eggerites. On any night of the week you can go
there and discuss contemporary works of literature with intellectual
clarity and emotional depth. There are posters on the wall of
favorite non-Eggerite writers like Cormac
McCarthy, Alice
Munro, Peter
Carey, and Michael
Cunningham. We giggle uncontrollably over passages from books
by truly funny authors. Just mention the names Richard
Russo, Philip
Roth, or
Francine Prose, and you'll wish you'd kept your mouth shut:
a bartender doubled over with laughter can't get you another drink.
Most importantly, though, it's profoundly empowering to be surrounded
by people who truly accept you, who understand, like you do, what
it's like to be different, who understand just how you feel. I'll
never forget the joy I felt the first time some old codger, flamboyantly
made up like William
Strunk Jr., stood up on a table and led us all in a drunken
rendition of the non-Eggerite mantra: "Omit needless words!
Omit needless words! Omit needless words!"
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