For shame

Once I read something I like by a particular author, my usual pattern is to go pick up everything else he's written/edited/contributed to/spat on/sat near. Since I almost never buy new books, the process of slowly finding the right edition of each title by each writer is a pleasure in itself.

Acquiring the complete works of contemporary authors is a little easier, since they haven't had as much time to churn out manuscripts (notable exceptions: Philip Roth and John Updike, who apparently run on equal parts Red Bull and blood). The old guard, like Austen and James and Nabokov, take more patience and luck.

For the most part, this turns out fine. Even when I don't love everything by a given writer, I tend to like enough of it to make the effort worthwhile. But every so often, I find myself collecting novels I consistently dislike by a writer who only interested me moderately in the first place.

Annie Ernaux is one of the few in that category. On a friend's recommendation a few years ago, I picked up A Man's Place and A Woman's Story, and they were meaningful enough for me to appreciate what she enjoyed about them. Then I read Simple Passion, and it had a few powerful moments. Ernaux's pieces are very short, so by the time I realized I wasn't especially moved by her style, the book was over.

Even so, I kept her name on my mental short list. It stuck around for one of those inexplicable, aren't-brains-the-darnedest-things? reasons. So, when I came across "I Remain in Darkness," I bought it. The superfluous quote marks should have tipped me off. I don't remember a thing about it except it was depressing as all get-out and I was glad when it ended.

Then, the other day, I came across a copy of Shame, Ernaux's autobiographical tale of a traumatic moment in her childhood. It was five bucks, so I added it to the pile.

It's precious, rambling, and self-indulgent. She employs a heavy-handed italicizing technique when she simply must show you that something right here is extremely important—and despite clocking in at barely 111 pages, the book needs a good edit.

Anyway, I'm writing this down so the next time her name pops up on the shelf, I'll remember that owning an author's complete works is only worth it if the goods are solid platinum. None of that mixed copper shite that turns your eyes green.