Here I’ve been writing about advertising, marketing, economics and business for the last several years thinking others shared my fascination with these subjects, (and meanwhile harvesting an average of about one comment for every five posts). Then I go and post one little thing about an obscure book I stumbled across and boom! My response rate quadruples.
So maybe that’s what my readers really are: Readers. And thus, what they’re most interested in hearing about is books, not this stupid advertising business. If so, then I’ve got a great suggestion that should keep you busy while I’m off gallivanting around the countryside for the next ten days: Middlemarch.
Yes, that Middlemarch, by George Eliot. And yes, I know most of you probably read it in some English Lit class back in college. But I also suspect many of you spent a good portion of those classes doing the same thing I did. (And trust me, that individual sitting in front of you would never have consented to assuming the position you had in mind nor been able to maintain for longer than thirty seconds without suffering extensive damage to the lumbar region.)
So go back and read it again. Then tell me if Ms. (or should it be Mr.?) Eliot didn’t produce one of the most astounding MRI scans of human nature ever rendered. An exegesis of the venality, vanity and vapidity encoded in the DNA of several personalities all of whom could just as easily be walking the streets today as opposed to 136 years ago. But what writer today, I ask you, could capture them with such scathing honesty and disarming wit?
It seems to me that in this circle jerk of solipsism we find ourselves inhabiting today, not many authors can tear their eyes off their navels long enough to grind out anything this perceptive, let alone exquisitely crafted. But see for yourself and let me know what you think. At the very least, it’s not the worst way to kill time between episodes of Mad Men.
