THE BORDERLAND BETWEEN popular fiction and literary fiction is now fertile territory. Once upon a time it was easy to tell them apart. Popular and genre fiction were in small format paper-backs, literary fiction larger: now all have been promoted to the once-prestigious size. Growing up, my local bookshop chain made it clear where its tastes lay by having a section headed discerning novels (with the unintended suggestion that the books may reject certain purchasers they deemed unfit).
Now everything is literature, or so it’s claimed. Thinkpieces asking why-oh-why popular fiction rarely makes the prize podium are as common as ones on wild swimming. Writers of limited talent who work firmly within their genre are reviewed with as much reverence as a Nobel laureate.
And for some it’s not enough to elevate minor work without also performing the reverse operation: one senior book retailer said Anne Enright’s brilliant novel was no different from “the many volumes of ‘commercial women’s fiction’ that
