The New Canon is a regular feature, contributed by Ted Gioia, focusing on great works of fiction published since 1985. These books represent the finest literature of the current era, and are gaining recognition as the new classics of our time. In this installment of The New Canon, Gioia looks at The Corrections by Jonathan Franzen.

Some novels, such as Ulysses or Lolita, became well-known among the general public due to the legal wrangling that hindered their publication. Other books gain fame through awards or movie adaptations. The Corrections, one of the masterpieces of new millennium fiction, is unfortunately best remembered for the "Oprah Incident."

In 2001, when Oprah Winfrey announced that The Corrections would be a selection for her book club, Franzen's publisher increased the planned print run tenfold - from 80,000 to 800,000 copies. Everyone should have celebrated. One of the finest contemporary novels would be exposed to an enormous audience, and a successful TV show was offering a platform to a brilliant young writer. And lots of people did celebrate . . . except author Franzen. The novelist seemed to mock Oprah's program in an interview on NPR (although he admitted he had never watched an episode), and expressed concerns that men might not read The Corrections because the Winfrey imprimatur would mark it as a book for women.

The ever gracious Winfrey stepped into resolve matters. "Jonathan Franzen will not be on The Oprah Winfrey Show," she announced, "because he is seemingly uncomfortable and conflicted about being chosen as a book club selection. It is never my intention to make anyone uncomfortable or cause anyone conflict. . . We're moving on to the next book."

Needless to say, this was not Franzen's finest moment. I don't see anyone calling Cormac McCarthy or William Faulkner sissies because they found a million new readers via Oprah. Even worse, Franzen became the focal point for a host of other petty gripes. Pundits did everything from attack the author photo on his book jacket to blame Franzen for the death of experimental fiction.

By the time Franzen followed up with a modest book of essays, The Discomfort Zone, critics felt compelled to review the writer instead of the book. Michiko Kakutani dissected this inoffensive collection of occasional pieces and issued an autopsy report that passed for a book review. The Discomfort Zone was "an odious self-portrait of the artist as a young jackass: petulant, pompous, obsessive, selfish and overwhelmingly self-absorbed." I wouldn't be surprised if the future editions of the Merriam-Webster dictionary includes blurbs from this review next to the defintion for "ad hominem."

So why waste time actually reading The Corrections? After all, this is a book you don't need to read, since you already have been assured by the experts that the author is a pathetic dweeb (although he does have a nice photo on the dust jacket of his book). 'Nuff said.

Yet I am here to tell you that The Corrections is worthy of your attention. Everything clicks in this remarkable novel, which deserves to be more than a footnote to the life story of Oprah Winfrey. Franzen's prose is artfully crafted, the characters vividly realized, and the storylines diverge and converge with the virtuosity of the Blue Angels doing tricks in the skyline. Frazen can be funny or serious, sardonic or insightful.