Let me just say that popularity with people on public transportation does not equal literary respect.

I remember a funny story about Marion Zimmer Bradley, preparing to publish her first "Sword and Sorceress" collection. She threatened the publisher (was it Don Wollheim? Dunno. Book at home) with mayhem if he put a naked Amazon on the cover of her book. Too bad not all authors have that type of clout, for I'm sure we'd then have prettier covers to enjoy.

I think fantasy readers rank lower than SF readers (please disregard the overlap for purposes of this discussion), and not necessarily higher than romance readers, just different.

But who's doing the ranking? That's what I don't understand.

I don't read most litcrit, in any genre, because I have no reason to assume that some yutz at the NY Times knows any better than the nine year old next door. So I have no problem at all in picking up any book that appeals to me on whatever level, and reading it anywhere; the only cover I've ever been embarrassed about was the cover of one of my own, which had damn-all to do with the book.

So, who is it that's looking at the cover of my Simenon or Chandler or Zelazny short story collection and rating me? I don't get it. Is it the reviewer community?

So, who is it that's looking at the cover of my Simenon or Chandler or Zelazny short story collection and rating me? I don't get it. Is it the reviewer community?

I believe we are talking about People In General. Especially People Like Us, who presumably only read Good Books that don't come in series.

I read the article, and I can't recall a reviewer more determined to dislike what he read. He also appeared to be reading mostly in what one might call the neo-noir authors, which is not where I think today's best work is. I tend to judge a series by the body of work, as if it's a really long novel, rather than by individual books, although generally the first couple of books have to be good enough to catch my attention. In the best series, the characters grow and change over the years. Often the first or second book in a series can be a little ragged around the edges but show potential. Some series run out of steam. The first 10 or so Spenser novels were excellent, but since have become repetitious, although I keep picking them up hoping that Susan Silberman will be killed horribly. On the other hand, James Lee Burke is still writing some of the most gorgeous prose out there.

Science fiction and mystery books still usually end up in ghetto of the NY Times book reviews -- the listings of one or two paragraph reviews. Occasionally they'll do longer pieces on people such as P.D. James, William Gibson and Neal Stephenson, but that's about it.

I believe we are talking about People In General. Especially People Like Us, who presumably only read Good Books that don't come in series.

Oh.

(does happy yet blinky little dance in the corner at not ever having given a flying rat's arse what people thought of my taste)

(debates taking the new Harley Jane Kozack, one of about twenty ARCs in my participant bag at Left Coast Crime last week, and reading it on a bus, back and forth several times in each direction)

I read the article, and I can't recall a reviewer more determined to dislike what he read.

Have I introduced you to the faceless genre nazi at Publishers Weekly, who reviewed "Weaver"?

BTW, I'm totally in agreement about living up to noir. Dudes, there are some big, big, BIG shoes to fill, in that particular field...

But who's doing the ranking? That's what I don't understand.

Well, I know in college, it was pretty common for someone to judge a body and find said body wanting if said body read, oh, romance or fantasy, where reading mystery was seen as intellectually acceptable.

I know a number of people who pretty much only read "literary" fiction and do give me a look of disdain when I admit to mainly reading mysteries, science fiction and nonfiction. I'm just not much on most modern literary fiction. I want something to actually happen. The New Yorker once ran a cartoon that was making fun of a lot of the stuff the New Yorker buys. A man is making a peanut butter sandwich and the caption says something like, "He smoothed the thick peanut butter across the bread, watching the slow swirls cover the rough texture of the bread. It reminded hiim of the peanut butter sandwiches his mother had made long ago, back in the house on the sunlit hill...." For me, at about that point, I would want something to explode.

I am reading a Dana Stabenow mystery for the first time. I'm liking her.

YAY! Kate Shugak or a Liam Campbell?

Oh, and when I say "old," I mean 1956.

OUCH!