In two recent posts titled Why Crime?…

I’ve talked about why we’re so taken with crime books and why crimes usually happen in my own books. One more (rather stray) thought occurred, and I decided to drop it in here:

It may be a good thing at times to remind ourselves that the most efficient, ruthless and, to my mind, disgusting criminals in our midst usually dress well. Those who deliver the most damage to the greatest number of lives around them often favor a well-tailored suit (occasionally one that includes a skirt) or an impressive military uniform, or, with some in the Middle-East, the kind of sparkling white robe we often like to picture Jesus wearing. They come with names like Madoff, Stanford, Mugabe, Gaddafi and Assad. Bin Laden, of course, favored the spotless robe but sometimes accessorized with a camo jacket over it.

Now some of those responsible for the most generous, good-doing activities on the planet also wear similar garb, so let’s not rush to judge a book by its cover, as they used to say back when books really did have covers and not some little jpeg image stuck to a web page.

And speaking of books…

I think it may also be risky to judge a book by its genre.

Not to waste your time, I don’t write fantasy, sci-fi, romance or horror. You could put a gun to my head, and I doubt I would write about zombies, werewolves, vampires or any variety of the undead. I have nothing against those creature or the genres they live in, and maybe if I had actually met one of those folks with the oversized incisors, I might have written in a different direction. But for the most part I don’t read in those genres either.

The comparative value of genre fiction versus literary fiction?

The topic has been hot lately, with interesting pieces by Gary Gutting in the NY Times, Arthur Krystal in The New Yorker, and Dwight Allen in the Los Angeles Review of Books. The term “guilty pleasure” is much bandied about in the discussion of genre novels, but I don’t set much store on it. I rarely feel guilty when I’m reading. It doesn’t matter what subject, style or genre, if I’m not getting some kind of value or pleasure from the collection of words in front of me—and that payoff can come in a multitude of ways—I usually stop reading and try something else.

Is Crime and Punishment genre?

A crime novel? The word is, of course, right there in the title, and can you imagine that powerfully compelling story without the murder at it’s core? But is it a genre construction? Well, no, few would say that, since it’s a world classic, unquestionably one of our great literary masterpieces.

Actually, the most helpful piece I’ve read on genre vs. literary is a recent blog/manifesto from the great Ursala K. Le Guin:

Literature is the extant body of written art. All novels belong to it.

The value judgment concealed in distinguishing one novel as literature and another as genre vanishes with the distinction.

Every readable novel can give true pleasure. Every novel read by choice is read because it gives true pleasure.

Literature consists of many genres, including mystery, science fiction, fantasy, naturalism, realism, magical realism, graphic, erotic, experimental, psychological, social, political, historical, bildungsroman, romance, western, army life, young adult, thriller, etc., etc…. and the proliferating cross-species and subgenres such as erotic Regency, noir police procedural, or historical thriller with zombies.

Some of these categories are descriptive, some are maintained largely as marketing devices. Some are old, some new, some ephemeral.

Genres exist, forms and types and kinds of fiction exist and need to be understood: but no genre is inherently, categorically superior or inferior.

For the whole piece, go to Book View Cafe. 

Let’s face it…

What we’re really talking about here is that unfathomable dance each novelist performs with each reader. Every one of us brings a unique consciousness to each novel we read. But that doesn’t mean we cannot share the experience with others in a deep and detailed way, while exchanging our personal preferences and judgments.

Sheer numbers, the test of time, the estimate of those who’ve made the study of literature their life’s work, the power of their arguments, the tenor of the times and the predilections and tastes of the moment—all these and more will play into a novel’s public valuation. But I find it hard to argue with Ms. Le Guin’s point that a novel’s genre should not be a determining factor. To me, her perspective seems not just democratic but practical and wise. How about you?

Next time I’ll go at this genre business with my own fiction in mind.

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