The Emperor's New Clothes

[raefinlay]

Sometimes, reading "literary" fiction, I feel like the child at the edge of the crowd. I watch the emperor parade by in his fancy carriage, holding himself in proud posture purely by his elitist will, listening to the adoring but vacuous cheering. I'm the only one pointing out the fact that he's NEKKID as a brand new baby. (But stoopider-looking.)

Ok, let me back up a bit. I just read a short story in a consumer mag known for its literary fiction. (I won't tell you which one, but it starts with a "New" and ends in a "Yorker.") And I wanted to pour kerosene all over its formless, existential wallowing. *pyro*

Can't people see the nakedness here? How long until we have the nerve to point and laugh appropriately?

Comments

[janeorben.livejournal.com]

Maybe I'm also being touchy about this because my dear parents read the New Yorker, and they are hardly snobs. My dad's a friggin' journalist and my mom's a HS English teacher, and they both live in the heart of the mid-west. (Northern Ohio)

[barbarienne.livejournal.com]

I think the desire to shout "The Emperor's NEKKID!" has less to do with the actual literary merits of a piece than with the writer's or publisher's claims of the literary merits of a piece.

I'm willing to say, "I don't get that, but that doesn't make it bad/fake/whatever."

I'm not willing to say, "I don't get that, but it must be good because [foo] says it is."

I am willing to say, "I don't find this has merit, because it seems to be doing X, and I'm unimpressed by X."

But we're all impressed by different things, and different things have different standards. I like going to a baseball game and to the opera about equally. But I don't expect Derek Jeter to sing me an aria, or Beth Clayton to turn a double play.