On Literature (or how to be pretentious without effort)
Wednesday, June 25th, 2008 03:49 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
caddymanIt is interesting to see some of the discussions the latest ‘literary meme’ has kicked off. I frankly couldn’t be arsed to do it for two reasons, neither of them deeply thought out: firstly, I get annoyed by memes and usually ignore them. In this case I acknowledged its existence and made a couple of comments, but didn’t give it any more thought than that. Secondly, I was a little embarrassed by how few I had actually read (though relieved that I had read more than six).
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binidj I find most nineteenth century literature tedious in the extreme – or at least nineteenth century English literature as opposed to English Language literature. Dickens and Hardy, worthy though they may be, were dreadful bores. Mark Twain, however… Equally, with a decent translation, Alexandre Dumas, particularly the d’Artagnan Romances, is fantastic.
I used to think that the problem was the Victorians’ lack of TV and/or radio to entertain themselves on long winter nights that made their novels so dreary and over fussy. After all, I reasoned, there would have been hours to fill between thrashing the servants or forging an Empire, so long descriptive tracts is the way to go. Then I remembered that the same was true of the eighteenth century, and let’s face it Sir Walter Scott could rattle out a fine old page-turner without breaking a sweat and he was hardly diverted by tuning in to the Light Service every evening.
Before anyone says anything, I am fully aware that in the 1700s, for every Scott, there was a Richardson, who could weigh in with such worthy stodge as Pamela, which I seem to recall came in, even in the revised edition, at around a million words.
I think that by and large my tastes betray my proletarian heritage. I like easily read books, preferably with more adventure than soul searching and more fantasy than social comment. Generally too, though not exclusively, I like something with a bit of pace. Many nineteenth century authors do not fill these criteria and it seems, neither have they been exposed to the power of an editor, unless, perhaps it is in later reprint text butchery, which substitutes excision and abridgment for editing.
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binidj I find most nineteenth century literature tedious in the extreme – or at least nineteenth century English literature as opposed to English Language literature. Dickens and Hardy, worthy though they may be, were dreadful bores. Mark Twain, however… Equally, with a decent translation, Alexandre Dumas, particularly the d’Artagnan Romances, is fantastic.I used to think that the problem was the Victorians’ lack of TV and/or radio to entertain themselves on long winter nights that made their novels so dreary and over fussy. After all, I reasoned, there would have been hours to fill between thrashing the servants or forging an Empire, so long descriptive tracts is the way to go. Then I remembered that the same was true of the eighteenth century, and let’s face it Sir Walter Scott could rattle out a fine old page-turner without breaking a sweat and he was hardly diverted by tuning in to the Light Service every evening.
Before anyone says anything, I am fully aware that in the 1700s, for every Scott, there was a Richardson, who could weigh in with such worthy stodge as Pamela, which I seem to recall came in, even in the revised edition, at around a million words.
I think that by and large my tastes betray my proletarian heritage. I like easily read books, preferably with more adventure than soul searching and more fantasy than social comment. Generally too, though not exclusively, I like something with a bit of pace. Many nineteenth century authors do not fill these criteria and it seems, neither have they been exposed to the power of an editor, unless, perhaps it is in later reprint text butchery, which substitutes excision and abridgment for editing.
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Date: 2008-06-26 06:47 am (UTC)