Once upon a time in a red red state, I was a huge Anne Rice fan. I voraciously read every single one of her novels (including her erotica), many more than once. I subscribed to her newsletter. I went to booksignings and stood in line for hours just to get her to sign my dog-eared copies of her books. I visited New Orleans on a regular basis, and during each visit I made a trip to the Garden District to check out her amazingly beautiful home (come to think of it, I wonder what its status is post-Katrina?).
As I got older, I slowly began to lose interest in dear old Anne, partly because I outgrew her, and partly, well, because her novels started to stink. I think maybe the outgrowing and the stinkage kind of happened simultaneously. I still maintain that the first three vampire novels, the Mayfair Witches saga,
The Feast of All Saints and a few other early books are quite good, even if the prose tends toward a garish shade of purple. In later years, however, her novels became virtually unreadable; ego-soaked, way-over-the-top, meandering, and in desperate need of an editor.
But even after I stopped reading her novels, I still regarded her rather fondly in spite of myself, mostly because I encountered her books at that awkward, hyperaware age when you're just discovering that your parents won't have you pinned under their thumbs for much longer and your once-miniscule world is about to burst wide open. Her books, especially the early Vampire Chronicles, really moved me, and for better or worse they left their mark (pun really not intended). For me, they were seminal; they represented everything that was not ordinary, not dull, not pedestrian, and not about life in hot, muggy, decidedly un-gothic suburban Houston.
So I was dismayed to discover, just days ago, that after having left the Roman Catholic church at the age of 18, Ms. Rice has up and rejoined the faith. Now, that in and of itself wouldn't necessarily be cause for alarm. Despite my atheistic bent, my hatred of fundamentalism, and my dislike of people who use the guise of religion to achieve their own selfish ends, I don't disdain the institution
entirely. I know Anne Rice has had a lot of tragedy in her life (the death of a child, alcoholism, diabetes, the loss of her husband of 41 years) and faith can soothe many a troubled soul. My problem is that Ms. Rice has declared, in no uncertain terms, that she now only intends to
write about Jesus. That's right. Little baby Jesus.
Novels about baby Jesus. Apparently, the first book,
Christ the Lord: Out of Egypt, is narrated by a 7-year-old Christ. Granted, Ms. Rice has always been something of a weirdo, but this takes the cake. Freaky, creepy cake. I'm half hoping religious authorities will take issue with this and speak out against her, much as the
Kabbalist rabbis have done with Madonna, but even if they did I doubt it would matter much. Anne Rice sells, even if she's shilling Crap for Christ. Saints be damned.
