For example, I don't like Seinfeld. In most cases, there's never any reason to admit this to anyone, but with this show (and also Family Guy since we're on the topic), I find that so many of my friends and acquaintances quote or reference it on a regular basis that I'm forced to admit that no, in fact, I have not seen that episode or, I'm sorry, but I don't know the name of George's friend to whom you are referring. With more avid fans, after I've fessed up to not particularly caring for the show, I'm met with wide-eyed stares and open-mouthed expressions followed by an exclamation of "What?!" Also, the people who do this tend to be taller than me, so it can be quite scary.
What I've found, however, is that, in general, friendships aren't busted or ruined just because one person admits to not loving the other person's FAVORITE THING EVER. And I've also found that great friendships can be formed when you discover that another person shares your distaste for something that everyone else seems to find appealing.
No one put the feeling of finding a new friend more succintly or accurately than C.S. Lewis who described the forming of friendship in his book The Four Loves:
Friendship arises out of mere Companionship when two or more of the companions discover that they have in common some insight or interest or even taste which the others do not share and which, till the moment, each believed to be his own unique treasure (or burden). The typical expression of opening Friendship would be something like, "What? You too? I thought I was the only one."...It is when two such persons discover one another, when, whether with immense difficulties and semi-articulate fumblings or with what would seem to us amazing and elliptical speed, they share their vision--it is then that Friendship is born. And instantly they stand together in an immense solitude.Admittedly, Lewis is speaking here of friendships forming over a shared like or interest rather than a shared contempt or loathing, but I think the sentiment still applies. Now of course, long-lasting friendships are better formed through common likes instead of dislikes. Obviously, it's easier for two people who enjoy skiing to share a meaningful experience with one another by going skiing than it is for two people who hate skiing to share a meaningful experience by not skiing. That is, of course, unless a large group of companions is on a skiing trip, and the two non-skiers decide to spend their time together in the hot tub or getting drunk on hot toddies in the lodge.
Those of you who know me well and have spoken to me in, oh, the past nine months, might know that, since that time, I have been trying to read The Fountainhead by Ayn Rand. Okay, so that's a lie. When I say I've been "trying" to read it, what I really mean is that I read it diligently for a couple of weeks before realizing that I kept falling asleep while reading it on my morning commute and I would be better served by finding some material that would keep me awake. So I put it down for a while, and then after several people kept telling me how much Ayn Rand had changed their lives (The Fountainhead is my boyfriend's favorite book), I picked it back up with no such luck. This is an 800+ page novel that I do not like and find extremely pretentious and boring. I understand that a lot of people disagree with me and that these people tend to disagree with me strongly. When met with such people, I generally tell them that Rand would probably be proud of me (though she might think I'm an idiot) for refusing to pretend I like something just because other people do. Touché!
But I've also found that Rand is a rather polarizing figure and there are just as many people out there in the world who don't like her writing as there are people who love it. I can think of several people with whom I've been able to bond after finding out that they agreed with me on this issue. Sure, none of these people have become my best friends because we have this one thing in common, but it's nice to have something to share. It makes me feel like part of a team. Or, I guess, an anti-team.
The other night I had drinks with a man whom I've known since my junior year of college. Our relationship is strictly professional, though we do meet every so often just to catch up with what's going on in one another's lives. He's several years older than I am, so our conversations don't generally stray far from the general "What's new with you? How's the job? Where are you living now?" line of questioning.
The night began with the usual updates on each of our lives--what was going on at work and in our personal lives--the usual small talk. At one point we came around to the topic of books. Since we both work in the publishing industry to one degree our another, this wasn't too odd of a conversation to have, but, surprisingly, it was one we hadn't had before. I told him that I tend to read fiction in my spare time and that I tend to prefer contemporary fiction over classics. He was the opposite, saying he normally couldn't stand the stuff that was written today and opted for classics in most cases. We then discussed our favorite books--he gave me recommendations of classics I should read and I told him about some of my favorite, more modern novels.
I tend to enjoy plot- and character-driven narratives to more analytical or expository novels (hence why I still haven't made it through The Fountainhead). I enjoy thinking when I read, don't get me wrong, but I hate pretension and the feeling that the author is trying to be deep for the sake of being deep. Give me a good story, dammit! If I wanted an essay or a treatise, I'd read one. But I digress.
The gentleman I was with works with very prominent and very highbrow writers on a regular basis--it's part of his job, so I figured he was probably into that kind of stuff. So, it was with some hesitation that I admitted I didn't like Ian McEwan novels. Okay, I've never actually read a whole novel of his, but I tried reading Saturday and couldn't get through it. I ended up giving it away because I had resolved so strongly to never even attempt to read it again.
"Me neither!" he exclaimed to my sheer joy and amazement. "I can't stand his writing."
Oh thank god! I was afraid he would tell me that Ian McEwan was one of his oldest and dearest friends and that he considered him the greatest novelist that had ever lived. He told me that, in fact, he has met Mr. McEwan on a few occasions and that he was actually impressed by his eloquence and speaking ability. I have no doubt, but it was so nice to know that a man I respect and like immensely shares my distaste for a novelist whom most consider prolific and profound.
After that discovery, the evening's conversation flowed even more freely than it had before. He even high-fived me when I told him that American Psycho was one of my favorite books of all time. I had earned some street-cred. Nice! At the end of the night, we hugged goodbye and resolved to "Do this again soon sometime." He said he had had a pleasant evening, and I could tell by the exuberance in his voice and the wide grin on his face that he meant it, and I truly believe that the turning point in what had already been up to that point a very lovely evening, was the discover that Yes, he too felt that same way
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