Good Read?

Last month I joined a book club at a friend’s Presbyterian church. The club is all women, mostly of the elderly variety, and filled with retired teachers and librarians. I am the youngest member by literally decades (which is fine by me. I like the role of spunky young thing I guess). Last month we read Teacher Man by Frank McCourt. The book was an easy read, funny in parts, with some lively dialogue. The discussion was a bit rowdy, more so than usual, apparently, because all the teachers had stories to share. It was, in short, a blast.

So, I was eager to return for this month’s meeting even though I was warned that the book was a little “on the dark side” and “maybe a little depressing”. I picked up a copy at Bookman’s and was a bit surprised to find that it was 819 pages long. I had a moment of reservation about starting a depressing book of such length. I have a tendency to hang on to things. Depressing or gruesome or sad books or movies just stay with me longer than most people, I think. I regularly self-censor my movie watching for this reason. I’ve made exceptions, of course, and have sometimes wished I hadn’t (case in point- the movie Boys Don’t Cry. Great film, but it seriously upset me for days afterward. It took me a solid week to stop having rape dreams).

I read the book anyways and found that it was, in fact, completely depressing. The book starts with 150 pages of set up where the reader learns that the protagonist family is a good family. They are happy. They love each other well and deeply. I read with gut clenching anxiety, knowing that awful things were bound to happen to them. No one could stay that happy for 700 more pages.

Finally bad stuff does happen. Lots of it. There are Nazi’s and a concentration camp victim. There is a teacher who molests dozens of little girls, who never tell anyone. There is a little girl raped and murdered. An innocent and heroic young man is falsely accused, beaten by the police, convicted with virtually no evidence, sent to prison, and raped. He is eventually released and is then diagnosed with a terrible disease. The happy family falls apart in multiple ways and is never restored. The book ends with the revelation that the little girl was raped with a corn cob (!) and killed by two other 9 year old girls.

I finished the book and was exhausted by it all.

As I prepare for book club tonight, I find myself wondering what to say about this book. We have to rate the books on a 10 point scale and I have no idea how to rate it. The writing was powerful and the author has a fine descriptive voice (though she could rein it in a little bit. This book could have easily been 100 pages shorter) but I hated reading it. She has some scenes and moments in the book that are pitch perfect and I admire that but… ugh… it was all so bleak.

So, my question for all four of you who read this blog…what makes a good book? Do you have to actually enjoy reading it to count it as good? How important is the pleasure of the read compared to the quality of the writing? Finally, what is a “good” book (a classic perhaps) that you hated reading?