I was raised by a New Yorker and New York Times reading father, convinced that all "Great Literature" must necessarily earn that title through a passage through one (preferably both) of those publications' book review sections. The validation I felt as an adolescent was thus enormous when my father, looking up from the smudged, jam and coffee covered pages of the NYT, asked if I "had ever heard of Dorothy Dunnett?" Indeed, I had. My joy was somewhat checked when I discovered that, rather than a deep discussion of the themes, moral questions, and literary skill of Dunnett's novels (such as might be given to books by the likes of Philip Roth, John Updike, and now, Jonathan Franzen), it was merely a short retrospective to go along with her obituary. However, the part of me that had always assumed that literature had two tiers: that which I read and that which the adult literati of New York City read, suddenly saw the possibility of a convergence between the two.
This was of course, merely the naivety of childhood. My first instinct had been correct; the system of literary tiers had a nice second-class reading level for I was destined, by virtue of gender once I outgrew the marginalization imposed by age. There was of course an exception to this categorization of readers. Those women who were willing to read books by men, about male characters, were grudgingly admitted into the higher tier, particularly if they were willing to vehemently declaim how much better books by and about men simply were by nature. It was nature after all that led my AP English teacher to assign 18 male-authored books that year, without any female authors to round out the number. We girls asserted our love for the "serious" fiction of Faulkner, Melville, Ralph Elliott, Tennessee Williams. We protested that we identified deeply with the characters of those books, wrote our college essays about the impact of Billy Budd on our burgeoning consciousness, and then promptly went off to read, if we continued to read for pleasure, fiction with female characters who didn't "depend on the kindness of strangers," but actually manged to depend on themselves. In other words, "chick lit."
The whole idea of reading for pleasure seems increasingly to be a female one. Men, it seems, merely make into "Literature" whatever they seem to enjoy reading. Science Fiction, Graphic Novels, Mysteries (with male or butch female characters); if men read it, it must be serious. Harry Potter (written by a women, but with all male leads, except for his sidekick) is worthy of study, while Twilight (written by a women, about the emotional growth and development of a girl) is utter trash, worthy only of mockery. Romance fiction is read by women, bought by women, and laughed at by men. If a story features a young man, growing into himself, coming to terms with his father, career, sexuality, G-d, and/or penis, it is Art. When the gender (and relevant sex organ) is changed in that sentence, it automatically becomes the dreaded "women's fiction," financially lucrative, but aesthetically reproached.
The marginalization of fiction by women is appalling, ongoing, and perpetuated by even the nicest men and women. Even by feminists and feminists' partners, unfortunately, although mine is in the process of being intellectually retrained. For every Michael Chabon or Jonathan Lipsyte being debated by hipster young men on blogs and in independent coffeehouses around this country, there are Dara Horns, Meg Wolitzers, Sara Waters, Amy Blooms, Dorothy Dunnetts, Audrey Niffengers, Ann Patchetts, Angela Carters, Elizabeth Taylors, Kate Atkinsons, and so many, many more women writing books that have something very serious to say and who deserve to be considered "Great Literature" alongside their male companions. Writing about a woman's life does not make a book "small," "narrow," "domestic," or "middlebrow." It only makes it "human" and "insightful." For the women above, and for the women like me who like to read about women, I want to start this blog.
Note: I considered F-CK Your Patronizing "Middlebrow" Label as the title for this blog, but I thought it might sound too "angry radical feminist" so I controlled myself.
Note 2: Authors like Marilynne Robinson, Flannery O'Connor, and Hilary Mantel will be considered in a following post. Please consider the gender of the characters in their most successful books before becoming indignant. Also, if you haven't read a book written by a woman other than those three or J.K. Rowling, please consider one of the above suggestions.
