Aw, Schlocks

Don’t worry, Arthur, we’re not going to try to smarten you up any. You’re already smarter than I am, and I can only barely stand knowing that.

I’m very much with you on the pleasures of reading for pure escapism. I’m at my happiest when I’m rereading an old Ross Thomas novel or diving into a good Batman comic. And I’m crazy for a grilled cheese, especially at the Village Lanes.

I’m not sure I’d be so eager to divide Schlock from High Lit, though. I think that the books we read for pure pleasure are just as edifying as the books we were once forced to read. I first read William Gibson because I wanted some exciting science fiction, yet he has turned out to be one of the most influential thinkers and writers of his generation. I go back to Gibson’s books for multiple readings because I enjoy them, but it’s undeniable that his ideas have an impact on me, regardless of whether I’m aware of it as I turn the pages.

It’s never been the case that we can tell in the moment what’s schlock or not. There are books that are widely regarded as classics now that were once thought of as pornography, pulp, or trash. People read these books when they were published not because some self-anointed culture maven told them to, but because they were salacious, exciting, or suspenseful. Charles Dickens published many of his works as serials, and they were as sensationalistic and closely followed in their time as Grey’s Anatomy is today.

So what’s my point? I guess it’s that it doesn’t matter whether you want to read the schlock or the classics, because it’s all the same stuff . Books lead to other books. You can go from The Godfather to King Lear to Neil Gaiman’s Sandman and you’ll be following a thematic thread across several genres, each of which is gratifying to read, and all of which go great with a grilled cheese.

I promised that I wouldn’t try to make you be smart, Arthur, and I won’t, because the truth is that you and Jim Butcher are taking care of that all on your own.