You know, I'm a little shocked that this is the second time I've posted about Oprah. I mean, I was pretty surprised that I posted about her even once. Twice is just silly. And maybe I'm the last person on the planet to read about this:
From the Book Standard:
In an announcement greeted with great enthusiasm from U.S. publishers and authors, Oprah Winfrey said yesterday that the monthly book club she hosts on her daily talk show would return to its old model of featuring titles written by living authors.
James Frey’s A Million Little Pieces, published in paperback in 2004 by Anchor Books, is the latest in the media powerhouse’s reader-advocacy program to be granted her potentially lucrative spotlight. In a doubly rare turn for Oprah’s Book Club, the title pick is nonfiction and, more interestingly, one that is a hard-edged, profane narrative not in the traditional mold of past selections from television’s reigning book diva.
Now. First of all. I loved A Million Little Pieces. I also loved My Friend Leonard. I am very happy for James Frey.
However.
Is there something up with Oprah? First Faulkner, now Frey? Both strange picks for Oprah books. Maybe she's trying to expand her the horizons of her fans? If that's it, that's great. Fantastic, even. But I kind of wonder if she's just messing with people:
"Heh. They made it through The Sound and the Fury, with the unreliable narrators and occasionally almost incoherent stream-of-consciousness monologues and the time jumps and the Faulkneriness of the whole thing. Let's see if they'll make it through this one, with the blood and the vomit and the profanity! Mu Hah ha aaaa!"
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