награда Кинга (частично англ.)

[avva]

Стивен Кинг получил награду, которую обычно дают "серьёзным писателям". Гарольд Блюм по этому поводу зажигает, как всегда:

"He is a man who writes what used to be called penny dreadfuls," Yale University professor Harold Bloom told the New York Times.

"That they could believe that there is any literary value there or any aesthetic accomplishment or signs of an inventive human intelligence is simply a testimony to their own idiocy."

Великолепной ayun реакция Блюма не нравится, но это ещё ладно, а вот высказывание о Блюме некоего whorlpool'а там, о "his extremely damaging (let's say soul-destroying) disregard for the fact that shoving literature down the throats of modern day students isn't going to do them a whole lot of good" — это бесценно просто.

А я вот не читал ни одной книги Кинга, так уж вышло. И даже для пущего снобизма этот факт не могу использовать, т.к. всем, кто меня знает, и так известно, что у меня нет никаких принципов и я готов читать всё что угодно ;-)

Comments

Re: ..

[dimrub.livejournal.com]

You may truly beleive this is so, but I wonder just how true it is. Haven't you ever walked past a book store in an airport, thinking "here's a store that has nothing to offer to me"?

Now, I myself have read some dreadfully trashy detective stories myself. Like, between 5 to 6 AM during a guard when doing my reserve duty. But still, I realize that this is fast food, it does not digest.

In my opinion, it has nothing to do with popularity, but rather with something more subtle. I really can't put my finger on it. It has nothing to do with the author's intention, I think, since it has only an occasional connection to the outcome of the writing process. I don't know. The amount of sofistication? Probably not. The intellectual challenge? Perhaps. No clear cut here.

Re: ..

[whorlpool.livejournal.com]

I don't know. On one hand, there's very little I can read that has much to offer me anymore, if only because I've read so much and of such variety that anything I read now only seems to confirm things I've already learned, or maybe just add a little flavor to something I've already digested. On the other hand, I'm not quite so fixed in my opinions, so I still read all the time because I want to constantly test my ideas and observations.

I think, though, that maybe the main problem is this: you and I (and many, many other people) are already converted. We already buy into the idea that literature has something subtle and sophisticated to offer us, something that we can't so easily find anywhere else. And we really believe that, and for all we know, it may really be true. But I tend to distrust things I might once have taken for granted; that is, I distrust myself when I start believing that there's an inherent value in art or literature (or anything else). In too many respects, I've been an outsider (I've seen life from the position of the outsider), so when I walk past a book rack and say "there's nothing there for me," I don't take the leap and assume that there's nothing in there for anybody. That, it seems to me, is Harold Bloom's error; he can no longer see life from the position of somebody who isn't already converted to the traditional values of literature. Unlike Harold Bloom, I believe it's quite possible to live a full, meaningful life without literature. That I haven't taken that path doesn't mean it's not a viable one.

Anyway, before college, I read almost exclusively pulp (sci fi, fantasy, and horror), and somehow I managed on all that "trash" to outcompete nearly everyone on grades and standardized tests (for what they're worth). Maybe according to Harold Bloom, I should have been at a significant disadvantage, but all that trash gave me a foundation that's taken me through two degrees in English.