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I want a good and proper sensawunda out of my prose fiction, too, though. If you're going to go throwing Morrison against prose authors, you're better off with Burroughs (either one) or even Joyce - Finnegans Wake, there's some serious and grande sensawunda. That 'Maus' fellow just irritates me; I just don't get the effect the way most people (supposedly) do.
Why do Nabokov or DeLillo almost never get a bit of recognition for their fantastical elements? Seriously, show me a Nabokov novel that has no inkling of fantasy/speculative-fiction. And if you just read twenty-three pages on a bus-ride and then stop for a month, yeah, it probably won't do much more for you than pass the time entertainingly. I hate to quote Kevin Smith films, but "You have to keep reading."
I don't know that I yearn for any sort of *serious, thought-demanding* fiction, prose or otherwise. I mean, reading 'Samson Agonistes' and some other poems, the other day, I nearly fell over when I realized, by Milton's rules, we could strong-arm God into elevating us all to His blessed finality of Heaven, by becoming Abelites and refusing to breed. The plan would have to be fulfilled. Big, massive, cosmogonic ideas, but nothing necessary, I'm not a bigger or better person for what amounts to a chuckle, a wince, and flip the page.
Too often, when people claim they want some sort of substance, what they're really looking for is (a) something slightly confusing to them, and/or (b) something imposing and or slightly confusing to other people which they can latch onto, memorize a few points from, and use to lord over the unwashed illiterate masses who're just going about their lives looking for fun entertainment.
I'll take a deathgrip onto Wodehouse or Kirby works, if I thought someone was actively trying to deprive me, but am I growing, expanding, and becoming some sort of super-intellectual cultured god?
There is a gap between good and great, a gap betwixt passable and utter crap, but medium to medium? I don't see that as a call that can be made, universally. I can't be the only one who's noticed the vast masses of horrendously stupid, badly hacked out, junk fiction in the world.
For all its encyclopedic nature, Eco's 'Foucalt's Pendulum' is essentially a potboiler mystery and a textual game, not the Divine Word of the Almighty Umberto Lord and Saviour of Our Times. Same for Tom Wolfe, Herman Hesse, or, heck, Alan Moore or Tom DeFalco.
'The Filth' weighs in with just as much pertinent information and social commentary as, say, 'Brothers Karamazov' at substantially less pagecount. Is one superior to the other? Is there a gap - other than geographical or timewise - between them? Who really cares?
This isn't comparing apples and oranges, but more... why can't we just eat the apples and the oranges? Whose this mysterious bastard who keeps hording all the fruit choices from us, doling them out type by type with never any variation? Oh, right, there isn't one, but then, everybody knew that but me, innnit? |
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