I dont even know why I read literary criticism anymore. I feel like an overwhelming amount of contemporary criticism reads like orotund, self-congratulatory bullshit. The snooty critics at The Paris Review would have us believe that unless our literary tastes comport with theirs, were uneducated philistines, somehow doing it wrong when we dare classify enjoyable novels like The Goldfinch as literature. When people like Harold Bloom and Francine Prose argue, holding up [what they call] weak books as examples of excellence promotes mediocrity and turns young readers off forever, theyre the ones demonstrating how out of touch they are. First, The Paris Review isnt the ultimate authority on the weakness or strength of book. Just because I happen to agree with Stephen Kings review in The New York Review of Books doesnt make me some lowbrow simpleton. Second, what young readers want is a good story. Not everyone wants to dive into the labyrinthine tales of David Foster Wallace or Umberto Ecco. Tartts ability to explore questions of the Good Life, the conflict between living freely and living responsibly, the permanence of art, and the meaning of family, all while developing interesting characters and telling a delightful story is exactly what turns young readers on and why Tartt deserved the Pulitzer Prize. Is Tartt the next Dickens? Maybe not. Does that mean we shouldnt reward her literary prowess? Almost certainly not. Despite their incredibly pretentious behavior, Bloom and Prose dont have a monopoly on defining what separates literature from entertainment. Sometimes, a good book can be both, and theres nothing wrong with rewarding books that well-written and entertaining. vanityfair/culture/2014/07/goldfinch-donna-tartt-literary-criticism
Posted on: Wed, 03 Sep 2014 09:07:41 +0000
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