genre, literature, literary genre, and genre trash

It’s been a while, but as I said when I first wrote in the Books category here, I’ve been trying to write a few notes at least when I finish reading a book, so that I’m not just reading book after book after book without really integrating what I’ve read.

I fell off the wagon.

The last book I wrote about was Going Bovine by Libba Bray, and since then I’ve read:

  • The Talisman by Stephen King and Peter Straub (which I read in my late teens and found recently at a community book exchange);
  • We So Seldom Look on Love, stories by Barbara Gowdy (I tend to have a short-story collection on the go at all times, and will read one or two from the collection in-between novels or non-fiction books);
  • The Etched City by K J Bishop (an Australian New Weird novel published by Tor Books in 2005);
  • Lock In by John Scalzi (which was a bit pukey).

It was cool to read The Talisman again, because it was one of my favourite books in my late teens ~ by that I mean I remember vastly enjoying it, but I never remembered much more than that about it, except a vague image of a young boy on the road, travelling through dangerous ‘territory’. Reading it again this time I was mildly surprised that not one of the words brought back any real memory of the actual story. So mostly it was like reading a novel for the first time. The story was kind of bloated and over-written ~ it takes a long time for the good stuff to happen, and many of the narrative tangents don’t really contribute much to the theme or plot (though they do a good job of developing a rich character in Jack). But I enjoyed it ~ especially the whole notion of how myriad parallel dimensions revolve around the Talisman, which is a theme that must have sunk in deep when I was a kid, because the novel I’m working on goes near similar territory, and apparently King goes deeper down this path in the Dark Tower series, which I’m keen to look at soon.

The stories in We So Seldom Look on Love, by Barbara Gowdy, are brilliant ~ dark, semi-erotic, bordering on perverse, but deeply human and affecting, plus her style and voice are assured and consistent. My wife put me on to it ~ it’s a collection she has had on her shelf for a long time, and which she revisits now and then (such is the quality of the stories). There’s a story about a troubled child who drills a hole in her head, a story about a guy who ‘saves’ a Siamese twin (though not before having sex with them), and a story about a relationship of sorts between a married woman and the voyeur next door. Oh, and the title story about the relationships of a necrophiliac. (I was pleased to learn just now that a synonym for ‘necrophilia’ is ‘thanatophilia’: I wrote an assignment for my lit studies subject last year about what I decided to call ‘thanotic sublimation’, which, I decided, is similar to erotic sublimation except it takes the form of yonic symbolism instead of phallic.) I very much value the ability to embrace the shadowside of ourselves, especially (or perhaps only) since reading The Unbearable Lightness of Being in my early twenties. So I love it when an author is able to lovingly depict characters who would otherwise be considered perverse or even perverted ~ apart from stylistic concerns like fluidity and the suspension of disbelief, I reckon such a function is an essential factor in determining what makes good writing great literature.

The Etched City by K J Bishop was aesthetically beautiful and deeply engaging at a sentence level, but the story and plot left a lot to be desired, in my opinion ~ an assassin escapes a Dystopian Wasteland for a Victorian-esque Wretched Hive city, has a hallucinatory relationship with another assassin he used to know, and then … I actually don’t remember how it ends, because I had lost interest in the story by that point. I think he goes back to the wasteland, and she evaporates into the whisps of hallucination. I read this because: 1), it’s an explicitly New Weird novel, and 2), it’s Australian. And I enjoyed it, but I’m such a sucker for good strong narrative that I sometimes felt it missed an opportunity to be a great story. No regrets. And I admire the courage to write something that doesn’t depend entirely on plot or story to get people turning the pages.

The virtual-reality sci-fi balls-up of John Scalzi’s Lock In is mass-market genre trash that holds value as market research, but that’s about it. The characters are implausible cardboard cutouts, the virtual-reality depictions are lame, and the myriad plot holes are back-filled with dialogue that would never happen among halfway-intelligent adults. I don’t think I can even be bothered finding a cover to upload. If you find yourself deserted on a temperate island in mid-winter with only this book for company, use it to start a fire and keep warm.

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