A couple of discoveries have impelled me to revisit the topic of literary fiction. Incidentally, I trust you notice that I have forborne to flank the term with the accustomed quotation marks, thus indicating my open-mindedness in the matter of this genre (if I am allowed to use so debased a term).
I have had a number of encounters with writers who are of the opinion that I am simply uncultured, untutored or just plain dim because I fail to appreciate the grandeur of their prose. Now, in the face of such an onslaught, only a fellow with the self-assurance of the self-deluded could fail to have experienced a modicum of concern lest the supposition be true. Therefore, I admit there have been times when I have thought, to put it crudely, that “it must be me”.
One of these times was when I recently encountered the work of John Farris. I am not so ashamed as some might think I ought to be by the fact that I had never heard of him until two weeks ago but I’ll admit to being rather surprised by his fame. I’m given to understand that he is a popular writer of scary stories, whom some believe to be rather more literary in his style than others of his ilk. For example, according to Amazon, Farris has been “…long a master of the literary thriller…” and Richard Matheson claimed that he had “…raised (sic) the terror genre into the realm of literature…”. Whilst I agree that this is not a particularly significant accolade (Matheson gave us the marvellous sentence, “…Talbot’s toes whipped like pennants in a gale…”) it nevertheless points to the respect Farris enjoys amongst some writers.
It was when I encountered some of this “literature” that I began to realise that my antipathy towards a certain kind of pretentious writing might be difficult for some to understand. For instance, amongst the turns of phrase Farris offers are such marvels as: “…He watched the rise and fall of her breasts with blurred yearning…” (I know: breasts again – cf last month’s blog) I googled the term “blurred yearning” and turned up three genuine results; two of which post-date Farris and one of which pre-dates him. That one, though, is from a poem where it makes even less sense. And there was this wonderful thing, which is either an appalling translation of a website hoping to flog protein drinks or some kind of catch-all tagfest.
“The focus is that silky with less than unrivalled compose, lifting depressed albatross with blurred yearning overturn up muscle worry up and muscle growth. And if you penury to develop muscle throng, you're luxuriant to persuade to abuse up "more" protein, to not at worst vouchsafe the muscles you participate in at this quite two seconds but to fullness more.”
Whatever the case, the term appears to me to be nonsensical but I mustn’t let that lead me to think that it’s just rubbish because, apparently, this type of conjoining of words is perfectly acceptable in some quarters. I offer (from various sources),
“…her sexually ambiguous Timex…”
“…swathed in stratagem…”
“…Spiers’s eyes popped extraneously from their sockets…”
Quoted in “Wretched Writing” Petras and Petras
And one more thing I noticed: To me, this sentence “…He gravely touched her shoulder, tapping it twice, dropped his hand…” is not only clumsy, it is grammatically incorrect yet this sort of thing peppers Farris’ writing. It also peppers the writing of lots of people whose work I have criticised. Am I to take it that this is also acceptable?
I am drawn to the conclusion that this is a species of writing certainly more common in, if not unique to American literature; however, I’m still not convinced that it’s good writing and I give thanks that I am not, as I had believed, alone. For in my search to find out what it was that led some writers to believe that stringing unusual words together in unusual combinations automatically endows it with literary merit, I discovered that there is a respected group of naysayers, whose mission is to reveal that the Emperor’s dangly bits are on display.
Of these, I have chosen to begin with “The Readers’ Manifesto” by M.R. Myers, in which the author picks apart some of the ghastly prose that was infesting American literature at the turn of this century. Needless to say, the work appears to be just as valid today. I shall report back presently.
I have had a number of encounters with writers who are of the opinion that I am simply uncultured, untutored or just plain dim because I fail to appreciate the grandeur of their prose. Now, in the face of such an onslaught, only a fellow with the self-assurance of the self-deluded could fail to have experienced a modicum of concern lest the supposition be true. Therefore, I admit there have been times when I have thought, to put it crudely, that “it must be me”.
One of these times was when I recently encountered the work of John Farris. I am not so ashamed as some might think I ought to be by the fact that I had never heard of him until two weeks ago but I’ll admit to being rather surprised by his fame. I’m given to understand that he is a popular writer of scary stories, whom some believe to be rather more literary in his style than others of his ilk. For example, according to Amazon, Farris has been “…long a master of the literary thriller…” and Richard Matheson claimed that he had “…raised (sic) the terror genre into the realm of literature…”. Whilst I agree that this is not a particularly significant accolade (Matheson gave us the marvellous sentence, “…Talbot’s toes whipped like pennants in a gale…”) it nevertheless points to the respect Farris enjoys amongst some writers.
It was when I encountered some of this “literature” that I began to realise that my antipathy towards a certain kind of pretentious writing might be difficult for some to understand. For instance, amongst the turns of phrase Farris offers are such marvels as: “…He watched the rise and fall of her breasts with blurred yearning…” (I know: breasts again – cf last month’s blog) I googled the term “blurred yearning” and turned up three genuine results; two of which post-date Farris and one of which pre-dates him. That one, though, is from a poem where it makes even less sense. And there was this wonderful thing, which is either an appalling translation of a website hoping to flog protein drinks or some kind of catch-all tagfest.
“The focus is that silky with less than unrivalled compose, lifting depressed albatross with blurred yearning overturn up muscle worry up and muscle growth. And if you penury to develop muscle throng, you're luxuriant to persuade to abuse up "more" protein, to not at worst vouchsafe the muscles you participate in at this quite two seconds but to fullness more.”
Whatever the case, the term appears to me to be nonsensical but I mustn’t let that lead me to think that it’s just rubbish because, apparently, this type of conjoining of words is perfectly acceptable in some quarters. I offer (from various sources),
“…her sexually ambiguous Timex…”
“…swathed in stratagem…”
“…Spiers’s eyes popped extraneously from their sockets…”
Quoted in “Wretched Writing” Petras and Petras
And one more thing I noticed: To me, this sentence “…He gravely touched her shoulder, tapping it twice, dropped his hand…” is not only clumsy, it is grammatically incorrect yet this sort of thing peppers Farris’ writing. It also peppers the writing of lots of people whose work I have criticised. Am I to take it that this is also acceptable?
I am drawn to the conclusion that this is a species of writing certainly more common in, if not unique to American literature; however, I’m still not convinced that it’s good writing and I give thanks that I am not, as I had believed, alone. For in my search to find out what it was that led some writers to believe that stringing unusual words together in unusual combinations automatically endows it with literary merit, I discovered that there is a respected group of naysayers, whose mission is to reveal that the Emperor’s dangly bits are on display.
Of these, I have chosen to begin with “The Readers’ Manifesto” by M.R. Myers, in which the author picks apart some of the ghastly prose that was infesting American literature at the turn of this century. Needless to say, the work appears to be just as valid today. I shall report back presently.
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