Recently, I became embroiled in a rather heated comment debate with a few "self branded" intellectuals that have decided authors such as Dan Brown, J.K. Rowling, Stephanie Meyers, King, Evanovich, Coban (They had a long list, but you get the trend here) were beneath them. They spouted, what they perceived as, flawed writing, thin plots...
My view: These people live to deny a good book. Anything outside their little world of self-indulged, pseudo-I.Q., prosaic opinions... unless it is written by them... doesn't deserve to see the light of day.
How can anyone set themselves up as the omniscient judge of all things written? What made them forget, that the greatest achievement of any book is involvement of the reader. Message, metaphor, even plot are nothing without a golden turn of phrase. I've read Voltaire...slowly. I gained insight from the great works of our past, but chose to do so for edification, not entertainment. I honor Ibsen, Zola, Ferber, as all who love the written word should. That there are those that would honor no others, makes me think they should re-read the greats from throughout the ages. They wrote to enlightened the heart as well as the mind.
The authors these people had a problem with, are for our hearts. They write adventures for our minds eye, that we may see beyond our immediate horizon. That they do not climb the esoteric ladder is neither here nor there.
I've always had a problem with those that can't seem to wish others well. Who live to express pessimism, in a vein attempt to be perceived as all-knowing. Their internal devices show such limit. The path they walk in life, so very narrow.
The authors they so revile, I celebrate and cherish. They give me such a broad, expansive view, that to deny, is to deny the written simple smile or warm embrace as having value to humanity. These authors provide moments that are beyond value to all that seek storys to travel with us as we live. When they write about the simple smile, I see it. The warm embrace is felt. A mountain climbed can leave me breathlessly anticipating the vista ahead.
Yet these would be author-judges will endure. I leave them to their denials of the many that are great. The absolute blessing of freedom of choice will always keep them at bay, their voices a whisper. I can't help having the earnest hope, that they will one day write a novel, get it published and become famous, so the peers left behind can have at them... What goes around comes around? If that isn't literary justice...
