How awful his work

February 10, 2012


I’m not making this up. I’m quoting here. “This spring, the novel blooms bright as a bevy of talented female writers put out thoughtful, provocative tales – with not a hot-pink jacket among them.”

This is what people’s notion of art/culture has come down to. Bevy. Hot-pink jacket.

I hope young writers don’t get sucked into the machine of publishing. Especially these best sellers. They might as well be selling bras. Or tuning forks.

Who remembers the best sellers of the 1950s? I remember John O’Hara. And how awful his work was. Anyone remember Butterfield 8?

Of course there was Norman Vincent Peale, Bishop Sheen (angels cleaned his blackboard). But when people write about an era they always mention the great writers of the time (Faulkner, Steinbeck, Vonnegut). Of course most of those writers took a back seat to others whose books filled the shelves of magazine stands. And convenience stores. and bookshops. Those  who were pulp culture. Who reaped the rewards of being bland. And boring. And mediocre.

Now I feel like Bishop Sheen. Filled with the power of ‘something or other’.

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