Tragedy With a Side of Misery

by

Andi Miller

Several years ago, when the Oprah Winfrey book club was at the height of its powers, I recall a number of friends in online book discussion groups complaining about the oft-depressing subject matter of Oprah’s choices. Novels like Tawni O’Dell’s Back Roads and Wally Lamb’s She’s Come Undone were overwhelmingly labeled “downers.”

Admittedly, I read few of the Oprah choices because I was too young to care at the time—my pre-book lust days if you will. Recently, though, I picked up one of Oprah’s former book club picks purely by chance. Toni Morrison’s The Bluest Eye could be the mother of all depressing books. Sadly, it’s the first time I’ve read Morrison—aside from my failed attempt at Beloved as a teen—but it certainly won’t be the last. I like depressing it seems. With Oprah in mind, and all those conversations about disheartening books ringing in my memory, I began to ruminate on the patterns in my reading; the types of books I choose time and again, in addition to the new-to-me titles toward which I gravitate.

Honestly, I think I’ve been a fan of the depressing novel all along. I’m more than willing to pick up humorous non-fiction—Martin Troost’s travel writing, David Sedaris’s personal essays—but 98% of the time I would rather be kicked in the face with a golf shoe than read a comical novel. I’m not sure exactly what it is about the humorous novel, but I’m often haunted by visions of vampire detectives or pregnant wedding planners. Perhaps I’m being unfair, as I’ve enjoyed a number of funny novels by the likes of Jennifer Weiner, Jennifer Crusie, and Helen Fielding, but the ones I’ve gotten wind of the last several years just don’t look terribly appetizing. Many of them even look quite stupid and seem to depend far too much on the laughs and gags that populated the books that came before them.

My distaste for funnies aside, my proclivity for tragedy with a side of misery is nearing unquenchable. Incest, divorce, terminal illness, homeless children? Sure, why not! It’s all fair game in my mind. Some of the best books I’ve ever read have made me bawl like a baby or my jaw drag in awe.

The most recent pure tearjerker that I ate up like a bowl of vanilla icing was Markus Zusak’s The Book Thief. Labeled a young adult novel, it’s really a practice in sadism toward Zusak’s characters and rightly so given the Nazi Germany setting. I hesitate to give much away, but I’ll just tell you the protagonist, Liesel Meminger is motherless, brotherless, homeless for a time, and continuously surrounded by loss. Death is the narrator of the tale for crying out loud. It doesn’t get much grimmer than that. I found Zusak’s novel fascinating for its young female focalizer, the off-kilter narrator, and the peripheral characters were nothing short of richly intriguing. I think the tears started somewhere around page 200 of 560. By the end of the book, I longed for stock in Kleenex.

Likewise, Philip Roth is another of my favorite grim authors. My first encounter with his impressive library of work was The Human Stain. The story of a black university professor nearing retirement, passing for white, fired for a misunderstood racist remark; it was ironic, well-written, and ultimately quite dark. It’s one of my favorite books of all time. It didn’t make me cry, but it was decidedly sad. My other favorite Roth titles, The Dying Animal and Patrimony—a chronicle of an aging, womanizing professor and the memoir of Roth’s father’s demise, respectively—only serve to illustrate my penchant for the dour.

The appropriate disclaimer which I failed to provide at the beginning of this installment of “The Finicky Reader” is that, by nature, I am not a downer of a person. I’m happy, smile often, tend toward hysterical fits of laughter when it’s appropriate. It all begs the question: why on earth do I insist on reading novels that make the general public want to jump off a cliff?

Easy—they’re interesting, multi-faceted, and surprisingly hopeful. I find that while reading the proverbially depressing novel, that I am perpetually pushed beyond my usual realm of experience. I get my jollies from reading because I enjoy learning and experiencing new things; so much so that good writing is a rush, a physical manifestation of the experience on the page. By entering the lives of the sad, downtrodden, overwhelmingly challenged, I get to witness the best and worst of human experience all at one glorious time. It’s sort of like watching the news at night, waiting for that hopeful human interest story in the midst of all the violence and dreck.

The best sad novels, like The Bluest Eye, aren’t all about depression and loss. While there’s a good bit of that along the way, someone usually triumphs, learns something, makes some sense of the madness. And while I loathe giddy novels for the sake of giddiness, I find sad novels that make sense or shed some light on the human condition extremely satisfying.

The next time you find yourself in the book store, wandering aimlessly through the stacks, don’t pass by that novel that you heard was difficult or gloomy. Walk right by the pastel covers on other novels, the cheesecake illustrations, impeccably dressed female torsos, the frolicking puppies right to the solemn cover in the corner. It just might make you smile, shed a tear, or invoke deep thoughts.


Andi is a recovering university academic employed by the North Carolina community college system as an English instructor. While she decided to forego a Ph.D. and career as a professor, she fills in all the free time her current position affords her with editing literary publications, reviewing, freelancing, and blogging. Her work can be found in the journal, Multi-Ethnic Literature of the United States (MELUS), and Altar Magazine as well as online in various venues such as PopMatters.com. She is a member of the National Book Critics Circle (NBCC), and writes fiction. Her turn-ons include new books and gelato, while her turn-offs are reality television and washing dishes. She can be reached at This e-mail address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it