Lynne Patrick
When Reginald Hill died a few weeks ago, it started me thinking. Specifically, his comment about choosing to write a crime novel rather than a Booker Prize-winning tome started me thinking about The Great Debate about ‘genre’ versus ‘literary’ fiction – and yes, the quote marks are deliberate.
Cards on the table: I stand firmly in the middle of this debate, wondering what all the fuss is about, and asking whether the people who draw these distinctions actually read any so-called genre fiction. (I’m well aware that there are a lot of people who don’t read so-called literary fiction – but I rather think they’re not the ones who engage in the debate.)
I like to think my tastes are eclectic, and my to-read shelf contains books which the people who categorize these things would place firmly on one side or other of the divide. David Lodge and Louise Erdrich sit alongside Lee Child and Tess Gerritsen. Sometimes I’m in the mood for fast-paced action and adventure; other times I need something more slow-moving and reflective.
I suppose it all goes back to a pretty fundamental question: why do we read at all? For me it’s much the same as going to the theatre: I want to be entertained, and made to think, and preferably both at the same time.
There’s a school of thought – not one to which I necessarily subscribe – which claims that genre fiction does the former, and literary novels do the latter.
My question is, how do you categorize the kind of book that does both?
I’m sure we all have our own favourite examples. Dennis Lehane’s Mystic River would be on many lists. More recently, John Hart’s The Last Child. And how about Philip Pullman’s majestic His Dark Materials trilogy?
The quality all three of these have in common is that they tell a rattling good story. And isn’t that the whole point of fiction? Stories are the stuff of life. Once upon a time they were the main teaching medium of many societies: probably still are in a lot of places.
In my experience that’s where ‘literary’ fiction often falls down. Not always; that’s why David Lodge and Louise Erdrich are on my shelf. But often. I’m in the middle of a ‘literary’ novel which had better remain nameless. It’s written with great skill and thought; the characters are intricately described and clearly live full lives inside the author’s mind; and their world is so detailed I could step inside it tomorrow and know where to find the car keys and the coffee. But when I reached page 100 I put it down without a wrench, stepped back, and asked myself what had actually happened so far. The answer was, not a great deal. There was no story: just an account of a family’s life at a point which could, I suppose, be called a crisis. I shall finish it, but I’m not aching to get back to it, and I shall certainly have no desire at all to re-read it. Unlike any of the three mentioned above (and just about everything Reginald Hill ever wrote), which matched it blow for blow for character and background, and also told a cracking good tale.
Now, that’s great fiction.
