The Good, the Bad, and the So-So

In one of my first years as a teacher, I was in front of the class railing against “bad” literature; as an example, I used the ubiquitous Harlequin Romances, so beloved of the young girls in the class.  That was a mistake.  One of the young women asked me if I had actually read a Harlequin Romance.  Even as a young teacher I knew that lying to students never worked, so I had to confess, sheepishly, that I hadn’t.  She handed me one and told me to read it.  I had no choice.  I did attempt to read it, and it was even worse that I thought it might be, and I gave up after about 30 pages.  But I decided right then and there that I would no longer refer to books or authors as “bad.”  No matter how awful I thought a book to be, someone (sometimes lots of someones) liked the book, and I would only end up insulting them.  My opinions certainly had no effect on the book.

I can’t say I have stuck to that promise completely.  I’m sure I have stood in front of students and  made pronouncements about the lack of quality of Stephen King, a writer I have never been able to get through; and then there’s Anne Rice: impenetrable stuff--to me.  But clearly there are many people, including some I highly respect, who love King and Rice.  Go figure.

What brought this to mind was my recent reading of The Killing Floor, the first Jack Reacher novel by Lee Childs.  At first it was mildly interesting as the characters were developed, along with plot and setting.  But it didn’t take long before I realized I knew exactly where this novel was going; I could have outlined the entire plot after reading the first chapters.  The prose lay like cold noodles in front of me.  The Jack Reacher at the end of the novel is exactly the same as he was at the beginning.  I finished the novel, although I only scanned the last few chapters.  What made this stand out so much for me was the next book I picked up: Travels with My Aunt by Graham Greene.  The difference was evident within the first few pages: Greene’s prose can only be described as luminous, his characters vivid and unexpectedly eccentric, his mastery of detail was exquisite, the settings unique, and the plot unpredictable.  And the main character, Henry Pulling, is noticeably changed by the end of the novel: “I have escaped,” he says, meaning his whole previous life is behind him as he moves on into uncharted territory.  Reading Greene was like standing in the mountains on a sunny day, feeling a cool breeze and hearing the tumbling of a nearby stream--after standing in the dry and vacant desert of the previous book.  The experience was liberating.

There’s no way one can classify literature as good or bad or so-so without making someone unhappy.  And I can be rather a snob about the whole process--on the grounds that teaching literature for 26 years gives me some insight.  So I will continue to make judgments based on my years of reading and learning and studying works of literature.  You are welcome to disagree with me.  I sometimes disagree with myself: I hated Pride and Prejudice when I read it as an undergrad, but rereading it a few months ago I found it brilliant.

In the final analysis literary judgment is subjective and, while I have my opinions, I have to accept that others, including others whom I respect, have differing views.  I fall back on my 65 or so years of reading, but I understand everyone won’t agree with me.  I can live with that.