First of all, no from Alexandra Machinist.
For our reading group, I’ve been pouring over the newest Michael Chabon book, The Yiddish Policeman’s Union. The book is a hard hitting detective story in the Raymond Chandler tradition, set in an alternate reality where the Jews, fleeing from Europe’s holocaust, settle in Alaska. The story is based on the slim possibility that the US actually did what it suggested it might do during Roosevelt’s presidency. I’ll talk about the novel in greater detail when I give our reading group’s take on it on May 19th. However, I consider it to be a successful genre jumper and a breakout piece.
A few months ago in January, one of the mid-list authors on my friends’ list said one of her goals this year was to write a breakout novel, the novel that would transcend genre writing and reach out to the public in general. Chabon is clearly a writer who can make this leap, who can write within the confines of genre and win the Nebula, yet capture the imagination of larger than the typical genre audience. What are the characteristics of the breakout novel?
I think about the breakout novel a lot. I am an English professor with a strong interest in the literature of the fantastic. I’ve read good novels and bad novels in lots of genres. What do I think makes a genre book accessible to a wider audience? Is it the fickle finger of fate? Good marketing? I’m about to go all idealistic on you, so for those of you who are nuts-and-bolts, get-the-words-on-the-page kind of people, you may want to skip this next part. I provide a convenient break for you to do so shortly.
Also, I want to clarify. In spite of the direction this essay will go, I don’t believe the purpose of all books is to become “good literature.” Nor do I believe that everything that is taught at our institutions of higher learning is “good literature.” Let’s focus on that genre breaker, shall we? We’ll do this over a series of entries. It’ll be just like sitting in my literature class. Lucky you.
First we need to talk about how the world, and more importantly, the reader, defines what is worth reading.
Why does a book speak to a large audience? Why does a book become a classic? Or why is a book measured as literary? These decisions are sort of arbitrary, if you think about them. Certainly, if you’re any sort of reader or student of literature since the late 70s, you’ve heard of subjective literary theory, the concept attributed mostly to Fish, that together the writer and the reader build the text, the symbolism, and the overall interpretation of a book. Taken in an extremely subjective light, the idea of agreeing on what a good book is seems almost impossible. Luckily, readers do have overlap on their textual experience, and it is often consensus that brings people together on what constitutes a good book.
As a teacher of literature, what I hope to do in any given class is to pull students together to discuss books. I hope they will look at the world through subjective glasses and consider at least the following questions:
1. What does a book mean to me, based on my experiences?
2. How do I react to the writing?
3. What evidence do I find in the book to help me understand what the author is trying to say in the book, to communicate to me?
At the same time, I know the decisions about what I bring to the table as literature for them to read can be questionable. Most people I know wouldn’t question my decision to bring Crime and Punishment. Some might question my decision to bring Huck Finn. I question the widely accepted decision to bring Macbeth. I think the question the students rightly ask is how do we determine which books are worth studying, and later, as a life extension, how do they consider which books are worth reading?
We’ll tackle that question in the next article, where I promise not to provide you with the answers, but I’ll give you something to chew on.
Catherine
