tear jerker
ousseau’s fan mail, “one is struck everywhere by the sound of sobbing.” “[O]ne must write to you that one is choking with emotion and weeping,” an admirer of Rousseau’s “Julie, or the New Heloise,” wrote. “Never have I wept such delicious tears,” another wrote. “I verily believe I have shed a pint of tears,” one of Samuel Richardson’s admirers, Lady Bradshaigh, wrote to him, after finishing “Clarissa”:
Pleasure and moral feeling, of course, don’t have to be exclusive: watching “Terms of Endearment” always makes me want to call my mom. But, after the sensation novel, it became possible to talk about tears solely in terms of pleasure. Today, it’s a familiar way of talking. Recently, a reader looking for book recommendations on the site Ask Metafilter wrote, “I want to cry my eyes out over a book … if it made you sob and sob and say at some point, ‘Wow, I can’t stand this’ it’s probably golden.” More than eighty people wrote back, with recommendations ranging from “The Bone People” (“it’s good, and it hurts”) to “Brewster” (“I can promise intense terrible sadness … So good”) to “Marley and Me”— endorsed, in wonderfully Lady Bradshaigh-like terms, by a user named “hairy terrarium”:
Marley and Me had me sobbing myself into a limp, wet puddle of snot and tears, the kind of sobbing that makes you want to throw the book across the room because the author is so obviously milking the sorrow for all it’s worth, and yet you can’t seem to stop crying, or stop reading … And I don’t even particularly like dogs.
Pleasure and moral feeling, of course, don’t have to be exclusive: watching “Terms of Endearment” always makes me want to call my mom. But, after the sensation novel, it became possible to talk about tears solely in terms of pleasure. Today, it’s a familiar way of talking. Recently, a reader looking for book recommendations on the site Ask Metafilter wrote, “I want to cry my eyes out over a book … if it made you sob and sob and say at some point, ‘Wow, I can’t stand this’ it’s probably golden.” More than eighty people wrote back, with recommendations ranging from “The Bone People” (“it’s good, and it hurts”) to “Brewster” (“I can promise intense terrible sadness … So good”) to “Marley and Me”— endorsed, in wonderfully Lady Bradshaigh-like terms, by a user named “hairy terrarium”:
Marley and Me had me sobbing myself into a limp, wet puddle of snot and tears, the kind of sobbing that makes you want to throw the book across the room because the author is so obviously milking the sorrow for all it’s worth, and yet you can’t seem to stop crying, or stop reading … And I don’t even particularly like dogs.
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