The fun of opinion pieces is the argument. The fun of opinions is the argument. Right? The result of argument is, arguably, more useful – by result, I mean eventual consensus on a course of action or the establishment of a mode or methodology – but certainly less fun. The parrying and riposting of argument gives the brain the opportunity to exercise, to make those opinions take shape factually in a reality, a consciousness that maintains a context of constantly shifting fact. It’s the opportunity to stand, not on top of the sand dune, but on the sky, looking down and enjoying the momentary cohesion of a reality. Then a meteor lands in the desert and leaves a crater of particulate readjusting itself to the new reality, and you’re left to stare and wonder and figure out how to “fix this” new occurrence into something your subjective accepts.
That is a completely tangential path to take (it’s the fucking desert; give me a break) to arrive at a discussion of genre fiction vs. literary fiction. There are several levels at which to address – the way I see it – the discussion of this argument. The first obliterates the distinction, says something about a difference, and moves on.
It might be right, that methodology, that argument, but it’s not much fun. Not that that side of the argument cares much for fun, being what it is, but the counter it produces, that distinction is absolutely useful, until it isn’t, is much moreso. This counter-argument angles nuance and a light touch as the counterpoints to outright dismissal of the argument. It says, “Well, give me a second. Just a second. I think I have a good example here. Hear me out.” It plays to the strength, the momentum, of the other side of the argument, admitting up front that distinction can be worthless. It bemoans the existence of sub-sub-genres, thinks Creedence being called swamp rock is the stupidest thing it’s had to type out six times in its life. But in giving ground, it follows up immediately with how the difference between genre fiction and literary fiction isn’t a superficial difference in two types of books in the way that a romance and a thriller are. The terms are merely stand-ins for a much deeper conversation. This is essentially the argument that Steven Petite makes in his Huffington Post article.
The conversation of story vs…. oh I wanted to say substance. I almost said substance. That’s just, wow, that word is loaded. It’s story vs. what too many term intellectual brouhaha (going to the other end of the spectrum there; I’ll find the right word in a minute, maybe). Petite’s main argument is that there is a fundamental difference in the two modes in that one provides an escape from reality while the other pushes the reader to think too much on reality. They have different goals, he argues. One could counter easily. Dickens fits more in genre fiction than literary fiction. Tolstoy too. Just because they don’t fit somewhere specific doesn’t mean that they don’t use the same conventions. One might be able to turn it around and say “Well, of course Dickens is genre fiction,” and that might fly. But Tolstoy?
Or, carrying it further, if one were to say Melville and Tolstoy fall along the same line of writing convention, both being literary, or both being genre, that individual would be dead wrong. Meteor. But that’s what we do. Despite Tolstoy focusing almost completely on dramatization of daily life and Melville daily showering in religious metaphor turned inward, they are both considered writers of the literary distinction. So is Dickens, most days, for what it’s worth.
A level down, one could argue British writers against other Brits, say that Sherlock Holmes stories are definitely genre fiction. Of a genre hardly invented at that point, granted. But distinctly genre fiction. The distinction here is surely clear. Dickens’s works are far above Doyle’s, maybe not in terms of exhilarating plot, but definitely when talking philosophically literary substance. One is definitely literary in this case. One is a detective story. Argument done.
The distinction down here on this level seems much clearer. We’re talking about canon, and new canon, vs. paperback writers. Here, on this level, the counter-argument continues, and the counter muddies everything, pours some water on the sand. And with good reason. The counter brings up Cormac McCarthy. It says The Road is obviously genre fiction. Post apocalyptic silliness (that’s a stretch) telling a vivid, gruesome tale of a world annihilated. What it does way better than that is tell a story of existentialism, and the coping mechanisms of a mind trying to deal with a world gone awry and the desperation of dealing with all of that while charged with a purpose, in this case, Aragorn’s own son. That story’s world gone awry didn’t have to be post-apocalyptic to relate to the deeper thought processes in a father. It used that landscape as a narrative vehicle to explore its character’s all-too-human thoughts and emotions. That is the definition of a literary work. The irony of McCarthy’s title is not lost.
So here we climb down to the third level of this argument. It’s a good level because it finds agreement between the arguing parties. It’s finally time for a beer. But as far as satisfying, well, it’s sort of an annular level; it has a ladder leading back to the top. Only the top looks a bit different now. There’s no fun here, on this level; there is just admission, and then return. There are definitely distinctions, they both say, the arguers. Definitely differences. To every mind, there is good writing and there is bad writing, they agree. And there are things we each love in both that supersede where we let particular works fall along that spectrum. One can say literary works are too stuffy and unenjoyable (hence, bad writing? maybe) and still love Pynchon. And the other can say “If I have to read another Algis Budrys story for this fucking ‘Birth of Science Fiction’ class I’m going to kill myself.”
Neither are wrong. Don’t kill yourself buddy. Asimov’s comin’ up. And it is clearly not a distinction without a difference at this point. These arguments clearly acknowledge the difference, but to do so, they’re required to rearrange the mappings of their justifications, they are required to decide their reasons for liking each and every thing, even subconsciously, for the sake of smoothing out their mental landscape, their desert.
It looks just like it did. That desert. The existences of different genres are now exactly one and the same as the differences of individual styles. Which makes the distinction moot. And brings us back around. Back up top. Grossman’s right. The line is blurry. Even over what the argument is. Real blurry. So blurry you walk in circles without knowing it. Every dune looks the same. I write this sentence just now after hearing someone make a fart noise over a speaker somewhere near my desk. I hear a woman cackle now at the sound. Legitimate levity. It breaks me out of the momentary philosophical circumspection and I laugh. Reality is not the desert. It is the wind. Convention is the order we give to the wind. God is a dog’s anus farting loudly.