Oh, for Heaven’s Sake

(Or, Dr. Doyle is peeved, again, and thinks some unkind thoughts.)

How to be self-pitying and self-aggrandizing, both at once. If the literary novel is a moribund art form, maybe it’s because this is the sort of person who writes them.

Of course, my opinion isn’t worth bothering with, because I read and write genre fiction — the sort of stuff the writer characterizes as “the kidult boywizardsroman and the soft sadomasochistic porn fantasy” — as opposed to serious, difficult fiction.

(Right. I spent seven years studying literature written in languages nobody even speaks any more because I’m scared of difficulty. Pull the other one; it’s got bells on.)

3 thoughts on “Oh, for Heaven’s Sake

  1. Using polysyllabic German terms (in this case, incorrectly: Wagner’s term in practice refers to his avoidance of arias, making the only literary example of the Older Way, perhaps, the interjection of poems and songs in The Lord of the Rings), mentioning postmodernism, or name-dropping McLuhan each suggest that the writer is a pretentious windbag; doing all three demonstrates it.

  2. When James Branch Cabell said something like this about the waning demand for his own kind of fiction back in the day, at least he was amusing and self-deprecating, not pompous and irritating like this guy.

  3. Will Self has written science-fiction, so – by his own rules – his framing of the rules does not count. He has in the past been arch enough that this might be intentional.

    On the other hand he does enjoy a good bloviate, so he might be serious this time.

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