What is a classic in the world of fiction? My arbitrary rule is this: Generally speaking, classic fiction does not include literature that has been published after the year 1900. A good rule of thumb is that Bram Stoker’s Dracula (1897) marks the end of the fiction classic. Dracula is elite fiction still, as high beside present-day award-contenders as the stovepipe hat is beside the Irish cap of Joyce. James Joyce, by the way, is one of the authors that we are so often told to read, and who is not even read by the people doing the telling. Not reading his Ulysses is no cause for flagellation. His merit may be judged, and should be judged, by something that takes minutes to read, not dozens of hours; therefore one should read his story called Clay. Like real clay, Clay is grey and inert. Reading Clay is comparable to eating clay, I suppose; it is tasteless consumption. When snobs are being self-critical for having never read Ulysses, the reason must be that word has gotten around about how unapproachably boring it is. When the subject is about never having read Dickens, the self-judgment seems to whisper ‘really should,’ while for Joyce it’s ‘do I really have to?’
No comments:
Post a Comment