SPL Reads!

Today on my lunch break, I skipped out and purchased a copy of Stephen King’s latest novel Duma Key (I know, I know…I work in a library.  But give me a break;  I’m currently reading three books and there’s no way I’ll get through King’s doorstop of a book in just two weeks).  Normally, I’m not the most self-conscious reader;  what I like to read is what I like to read, and I’m comfortable with that.  I’ve read Gravity’s Rainbow (twice, actually) and I’ve slogged through Ulysses, so I feel like I’ve proven my mettle as a reader enough to not go around constantly doing the heavy lifting.  But after reading an essay by Pulitzer Prize-winning author and staunch defender of genre fiction Michael Chabon, I mused a bit over my choice in reading.  Chabon’s essay lashed out against the stigma against writers who embrace genre fiction or pop culture literature, stating that such writers are condemned to a career writing in literary exile (of course, Chabon did win the Pulitzer for The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay, a novel that embraces genre fiction to its fullest extent, so how exactly Chabon defines “exile” is probably great fodder for another discussion).

I think what made me connect the dots from Stephen King’s latest novel to Chabon’s essay (which some have perhaps correctly called a rant or tirade) is the lambasting that noted literary critic Harold Bloom dealt Stephen King in a 2003 article upon the occasion of the latter receiving the National Book Foundation’s Medal for Distinguished Contribution to American Letters.  Bloom called this award “another low in the shocking process of dumbing down our cultural life.”  If Chabon’s essay could rightly be termed a tirade, then the same label should no doubt be stamped upon Bloom’s criticism of King (Bloom also used the same article as an opportunity to toss some barbs at another big target: J. K. Rowling).  In fact, Bloom’s article emits that aura of elitism that authors like King and Chabon sidestep at every opportunity.  King has even gone so far as to call his own writing “the literary equivalent of a Big Mac and fries.”  And it has been my observation that critics are immediately wary of anything so popular (seeing the  response to Oprah’s choice of Cormac McCarthy for her book club is probably also great fodder for another discussion).

With all this in mind, I began to wonder exactly when this great divide between the “novel of literature” and the “popular novel” opened like some great chasm in the literary world. It certainly couldn’t have been that long ago.  A cursory reading of Flaubert’s  Madame Bovary reveals that by 1856, a prejudice had developed toward romantic novels. Although I’m no literary historian, I’d guess that the real split took place when Charles Dickens entered the picture.  Dickens was enormously popular in his lifetime, a feat that few novelists had managed in that era.  He was famous for playing to his audience’s tastes, and was the 19th century equivalent of a bestselling author, the kind who would today be guaranteed a spot at the top of the New York Times bestseller list every time he published.  And while contemporary critics praise Dickens’ works, he is an author who in his lifetime received little serious critical attention.  In short, Charles Dickens was a lot like Stephen King: he enjoyed overwhelming approval from the vox populi and there wasn’t enough critical ink in the world to damage that approval. 

What motivates critics like Harold Bloom to train their critical sights on Stephen King and open fire with both barrels is not something I can begin to understand or fully explain, but I feel confident enough to hazard a few guesses.  Perhaps Bloom feels the writing is really that bad. Perhaps, as some have suggested, it is simply a case of sour grapes.  After all, Stephen King is enormously popular.  As an author, his work is so bankable from a publishing standpoint that no amount of critical vitriol could hope to diminish his support from readers.  A critic–or even a single-minded mass of critics–trying to assail King’s popularity through pointed reviews would be similar in effect to a lunatic trying to melt the Mendenhall glacier with a hairdryer.  I suspect that most critics feel that the only criticism they can apply to King (or Rowling or John Grisham or any of the crop of current publishing juggernauts) is by retreating from his current work and taking aim at that ephemeral thing in the distance: the literary legacy.  By awarding King a medal for distinguished contribution to literature, the National Book Foundation made King’s legacy a harder target for critics, and I have some suspicion that Bloom’s impassioned condemnation is partly the result of his fear that such an award has unfairly placed King in the upper echelon of American letters.  In such territory, King might become impervious to critical slings and arrows.  If so, I’d comfort Bloom by telling him not to worry, that slagging Stephen King is still firmly in vogue in most English departments (I know firsthand: there was plenty in the department from which I graduated).

Of course, no discussion of King’s literary merit, or lack thereof, could be considered anythinig resembling complete without mention of genre fiction (again, we arrive back at Chabon).  No author can better draw the ire of critics and professors like the author of genre fiction.  Pick a genre, any genre:  science fiction, horror, mystery, romance, the graphic novel, etc.  At this moment there are probably writing workshops, critical panel discussions, graduate classes, or even book clubs where these genres and the authors who call them home are being savaged.  As a writer of genre fiction, I have to admit that the form can be an easy punching bag, just as any niche market artwork is.  But the across-the-board dismissal of genre fiction as literary junk food seems like a type of broadstroke criticism, and thankfully (again, depending on your perspective) one that is becoming obsolete.  Witness the canonization of J. R. R Tolkein.  Behold the critical attention now being paid to Raymond Chandler.  Take a long look at the writings concerning the works of Kurt Vonnegut and Philip K. Dick, both of whom helped tranform science fiction from a literary ghetto to a place that some serious critics are beginning to tread (albeit with no little trepidation). 

And if we are to roundly dismiss genre fiction, then what do we do with Shakespeare?  His works are filled with violence, vengeful spirits, witches, anachronism, and outrageous coincidence (and that’s just Macbeth!).  And let’s not forget classical literature.  Beowulf and The Odyssey bear more than a passing resemblance to the landscape of modern fantasy fiction. Stephen King’s work is filled with similar genre tropes: he trots out zombies, axe-weilding madmen (and women), vengeful cars, alternate dimensions, and space aliens.  For some critics, no amount of careful plotting, character development, or sense of setting can overcome these transgressions;  the inclusions of such genre staples is reason enough for a critical beheading.

But what do I know?  Harold Bloom is a professor at Yale, and I’m a humble library staffer.  The sum total of Bloom’s literary experience no doubt dwarfs mine (to be fair, he is in his 70s, whereas I just ripened to the old age of 29).  Perhaps I’m wrong to defend Stephen King’s literary Big Macs.  Perhaps my grandchildren will sneer at Stephen King’s novels in their college literature classes.  Perhaps Harold Bloom is right.  Perhaps the primary focus of literature should not be simply to entertain.  While it’s probably obvious from my entry here (which, despite my best intentions, has probably become a Chabon-esqe tirade) that I’m a supporter of Stephen King’s writing, I’d never want to position myself to be a critic of Bloom’s magnitude.  So maybe you should take this whole argument with that old cliched grain of salt.

One thing is for sure, however: Stephen King doesn’t need my approval, and I doubt Harold Bloom’s condemnation rankles King all that much.  For better or worse, Stephen King is a part of our literay landscape, and whether he’s a shining monument or a cheap roadside attraction is a judgment that belongs to future critics.

Oh, and one more thing that is certain:  I’m looking forward to sitting in front of the fire, steaming cup of Sumatra in my had, and reading Duma Key.  It looks entertaining.