The literati have told us no, genre fiction can no more be
literature than a pig could write Hamlet.
A representative statement comes from Arthur Krystal of The New Yorker:
“Make no mistake:
good commercial fiction is inferior to good literary fiction in the same way
that Santa Claus is inferior to Wotan. One brings us fun or frightening gifts,
the other requires—and repays—observance.”
http://www.newyorker.com/online/blogs/books/2012/10/its-genre-fiction-not-that-theres-anything-wrong-with-it.html
And so brothers and sisters, we are banished to our ghettos
and garrets to read shameful, dog-eared novels of dubious provenance in which
robots save the day, detectives find the killer, the girl kisses the guy, and the
dragon’s head falls under the warrior’s blade. And as we turn page after
furtive page, each sentence compounds a guilt which not even confession can
absolve us of, that of being base and ignorant and low and profoundly uncool.
Yet our champions have gone forth. The position of the
genre-ista has been most succinctly defended by Ursula K. LeGuin who wrote that
literature is “The extant body of written art. All novels belong to it.”
Her argument is obvious and common sense, though I would add
one simple appendix. All novels are literature, but there are indeed two kinds
of novels, good ones and bad ones, and they can be found in what its partisans
would call “literary fiction”, but which I shall henceforth call “high
fiction.”
And for the past year I have waited for LeGuin’s argument to
prevail, thinking in my simplicity that what she said was right and true, and
therefore it would outlast all the rockets and bombasts of the literati.
I was wrong. The war has gone on.
The literati sit in the cafeteria telling us we can’t read
those books at their table. They stand in the door of the school like George
Wallace, telling us that the walls between high fiction and genre fiction will
last now and forever. We must read our books in another place.
And the ultimate reason for their disapprobation is that our
books just aren’t as good as theirs.
Brothers and sisters, for too long we have brooked their
disrespect. For too long we have sweated in shame under the haze of their
judgment. For too long we have tolerated their bullying.
And now I cry to you “No more!”
If the literati fail to see the absurdity of their own
argument, we shall steal it from them that they might see their own absurdity.
We shall become a mirror which allows them to face an ugly truth within
themselves. They are segregationists. The literati make into two that which
should be one, an act which all sages in all times have decried as leading to chaos
and disorder. For too long they have said, “Our books are better than your
books,” and for too long our reply has been “All books are equal!”
No more will our line be that of the accomidationists, those
who simply wish to see genre seated at the table of literature beside high
fiction. No no!
Instead brothers and sisters, our line shall now be: “Genre
fiction is superior to literary fiction!”
And in truth we are wrong as they are wrong. But in being
wrong, we will demonstrate their own wrongness to them.
And the literati will first laugh at us, saying they
believed us fools before for enjoying Dennis Lehane, and we have now proved it.
But as all who went before them who wished to make into two what was in fact
one, from the antebellum slave power to the lawmakers of Jim Crow, they have
not a logical leg to stand on. And we will demonstrate it with the brashness
and boldness of our evidence.
Genre fiction is democratic. We write for the people, not
the ivory tower. They would raise up works so erudite and impenetrable and
plotless that only graduate students and professors have the time or desire to
read them. People, I would add, with advantages of race and class which we in
the Genre Army could only fantasize about being born with. The works they
choose are walls thrown up by the establishment to keep the common man out of
their classrooms, lectures, and away from them. Heavens know, a person without
a master’s degree may smell a little of sweat, and that would be most
unpleasant.
Genre fiction is vigorous. It is the way of the future. It
is why partisans of high fiction are put in the awkward position of defending a
type of literature so absent ideas that its most talented practitioners have
turned to writing genre fiction! Micheal Chabon, Cormac McCarthy, Margaret
Atwood, Philip Roth, and the list goes on. These authors demonstrate that
talents are attracted to the healthy climate of genre, and the freedom it
allows.
Freedom! Genre writers are free in ways literary writers are
not. Cannot circumscribes the space of the writer of high fiction. A writer of
high fiction cannot write sincerely of God or religion, cannot write a story
that takes place anywhere but Earth, cannot write of exceptional men and women,
cannot write a story set in the future or in the past, cannot write a story
with a happy ending, and should wrap their shoulders in sackcloth for penance if
they write a story with a page-turning plot. Like monks and their vows, the
road of the writer of high fiction is one of abstinence and denial, for only in
self-abnegation can our literary sins be forgiven. The writer and reader of
high fiction is suspicious of any book, which may be- Joyce forbid!
enjoyable.
Imagination, which is finite but unbounded, is the only
limit of the genre writer. And the matters which high fiction is so fond of
discussing can be folded into genre stories. Because genre fiction is capable
of containing the stories of high fiction, but high fiction cannot abide to
tell genre stories, genre fiction is clearly superior to high fiction. In the same
way that the shark is higher on the food than the seal it consumes, genre
fiction shall rend to pieces and feed on the corpse of high fiction before
moving on to find some fiercer, more worthy, prey.
And the literati will listen to all you say, and appear
unruffled as a turkey in the yard the day after Thanksgiving. But in the bitter
watches of the night, when they stare up at the ceiling unable to sleep and
wonder if Don DeLillo is built for eternity, they will fear that we are right.
And their fear will drive them to agree with the position that is the truth:
That there is but one literature.
As we genre-istas are the bearers of a greater teaching, I
submit that we must no longer bear the bullying of the literati with patience.
I take their segregationary and exclusionary policies and black-shirt tactics
as a crime against culture.
Brothers and sisters, no more moving to the back of the bus!
No more hiding at the corner table!
Remember, genre fiction is superior to their “literature”!
We must fight until the halls of academia ring with Elvish!
Burn your unread copy of Infinite
Jest!
Use Jonathon Franzen for toilet paper!
Genre fiction is better than literary fiction!
No comments:
Post a Comment