RIP Novel: A Letter to the Dead


I am sorry that for the longest time you felt like everyone’s attention and affection were directed at “the Kidult Boywizardsroman and the Soft Sadomasochistic Porn Fantasy.” I am sorry that more and more people are going out with Rubbish YA. I am sorry that your friends think “the hallmark of our contemporary culture is an active resistance to difficulty in all its aesthetic manifestations, accompanied by a sense of grievance that conflates it with political elitism,” because obviously, depression, suicide, rape and child abuse are all easy subjects. I am sorry that these elitists are so dismissive, and maybe, just maybe, the same can be said of the other camp. But that’s besides the point, isn’t it? Your friends now claim you’re dead.

Don’t get me wrong. There is a certain beauty to you, Novel, there is. But not everyone has the luxury to spend their days with you. Some people are going through shit in their lives and the last thing they want is to be critical all the time and power through long, verbose passages. And for most, that’s not even it. Some get some and some don’t, you know what I mean? Rubbish YA understands me; she understands what it’s like. And right now if I can pair someone with a Book and make him/her feel understood, that’s all I’m going for.

So I apologize if “those who reject the high arts feel not merely entitled to their opinion, but wholly justified in it.” Because, fuck that. We read because we read. However, whatever, whenever. I don’t think anyone has to feel the need to justify what he/she reads.

Not-So-Serious-and-Mostly-Young-Adult Reader

PS. I don’t believe you are really gone.

PPS. The children are all right.


NOTE: The quotations were taken directly from this Guardian think piece, written by Will Self.

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