One of my most enjoyable reading experiences is when I find, to my surprise, that an author whom I’ve never read, and whose writing for whatever reason I’ve been led to believe, despite its universally agreed-upon value, is dry and humorless—even unenjoyable—actually turns out to be bright, beautiful, enjoyable, and, above all, evinces a delightful and singular sense of humor. In extreme cases, the stark dissonance between my preconceived notions—based, as it is, predominantly on the opinion of others’, and less frequently from my own experience with blurbs or cover art or the remains of my childhood anti-intellectualism—and what I actually discover in the author’s prose leads me to believe I’m the only person who actually finds the text in question funny. 

I am thinking mainly of Moby-Dick, Faulkner*, Casablanca, Proust†, Joyce, Böll*, Shakespeare, Plato. I can chalk the Bard up to the childhood anti-intellectualism; everyone knows he’s hilarious. My false beliefs regarding the others I think are much more common. My introduction to these authors will of course differ with those of many, some of you knew more or less what you were getting, yet in some sense I’m glad my sheltered and misguided introduction to these writers and works has stayed with me. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have these surprise encounters, so much like meeting a kindred spirit, a someone who sees the world as you do, a new and delightfully unexpected friend-for-life.

* Böll and Faulkner are somewhat unique cases, in that the first books I read of these authors—Billiards at Half-past Nine and Absalom! Absalom!, respectively—although amazing, I do recall finding rather humorless, pervasively somber and heart-strangling. The second books I read, however—Group Portrait with Lady (in progress) and As I Lay Dying—were peppered with humor and irony. Of many possible explanations for this fact, I’ll offer two: 1) Writers of such talent, Nobelists both, are surely capable of pure tragedy, pure comedy, and/or a mixture of both (see: Shakespeare), and this discovery on my part was merely coincidental; 2) There has been a span of some years since my first reading of both authors and I might simply be a more observant reader now.

† I think of Proust as something of a borderline example. His humor is far subtler and less frequent than the aforementioned cases, but there are many times I’ve found myself wondering if the 30+ pages (if not an entire novel: The Guermantes Way) I just read were some of the most solemn-faced irony I’ve ever come across.