I am currently reading two novels. One was highly acclaimed and written in 1896. The other was a best-seller written in 2022. If I didn’t know the years of their publication, I would wonder how they were both published. (I’ll leave the titles and authors out of this post—they’ve done their jobs and have suffered enough.)
Older literature is known to be verbose, which is tedious to most readers of the current time period. I join most readers in this generalization. The book I’m reading now from two centuries ago is an excellent story, yet I’m aware of my brain becoming restless at times as if I have a time limit for reaching the end. However, the writing is superb and admirable. Vocabularies seemed to be larger then, and the descriptions (although superfluous by today’s standards) were magnificent.
The absence of descriptive precision in modern literature doesn’t disturb me enough to stop me from reading. I notice it when I discuss a book with someone else who has read it and we discover the chasm of perceptive differences between our interpretations, and as long as we both gleaned something meaningful or enjoyable, all is well.
The 2022 novel I’m reading lacks sufficient setting and reminds me of some of my early work that was criticized for taking place in a haze. Unfortunately, it is obvious to me (as someone who has edited and been edited) the points where sections were cut for the sake of rapid continuity.
And that’s it—rapid continuity seems to be the trend in fiction and creative nonfiction. I’ve been taught and I’ve even preached that if a scene doesn’t move the story forward in an obvious way, it must be cut.
The only recent trend that isn’t minimalistic seems to be the preference for sitcom dialog in which rapid-fire insults have replaced what was once clever wit. What I’m reading is full of it, highly unrealistic but permittable in fiction. Some blame the social acceptability of swearing and obscenities for this. Long ago, a writer had to be more creative with dialogue because so many words weren’t allowed for a general audience.
Often when reading something newly popular, I wonder how the first draft read, and how much richer it must have been. Stripped down to only what is necessary, it is impossible to differentiate one writer’s style from another. My current reading selection could have been written by anyone. I’m at the 60% mark, and I haven’t identified a unique voice. Even so, the story works. I wonder if the author is satisfied with the final edit, though. A best-seller isn’t what it used to be.
Whereas the classic I’m reading is unmistakably the product of its famous author. It is rich and as absorbing as television, even though it is slow and makes me wonder if I’ll ever reach the end. At 30%, the story has only started to move, but I’m hearing the author’s voice and I’m seeing the author’s vision.
Is one better than the other? Does societal change necessarily degrade the standard of what was known as literature? Does it matter that an author’s work has to become sterilized of its individuality to become popular? Or is the possibility that any written work may provide meaning or entertainment to the reader the ultimate measure of its success?
I have no answers, only preferences. With the rise of authors using AI, it seems that the trend toward the stripped-to-the-skeleton style of writing will continue and perhaps the classics will only remain active in scholarly settings.
I hope I’m wrong.
