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I think if you truly love a work of art, it’s a good idea to have a sense of humor about it. Joylessly rushing to its defense every time someone doesn’t love it on Twitter like Aragorn has summoned you to war is not the good look you think it is.
As a lover of Anne Carson, Michael Ondaatje, Marcel Proust, and others, I think it’s important to recognize that the reason a master stylist like Marilynne Robinson is precious is because such a writer takes risk. And taking risks is nothing without the occasional failure.
I once loved every single word Anne Carson wrote. The first time I read a poem of hers that misfired, it was a strange feeling! Like the spell had been broken—maybe all her stuff was this bad and I was just deluded? I had to go back to what I loved and understand it better.
Admitting that your beloved masterpiece has a cringe-inducing line here or there, in other words, can be a means to deepening your love of that work, not the opposite.
And, honestly, if your attitude is that every single rando online has to love your favorite and you will brook no dissent whatsoever? That says much more about your own insecurity than it does the work in question.
What a boring ass world this would be, if we all held the same set of books sacrosanct and above reproach.
