coalescent: (Default)
Following on from the duelling reviews of Learning the World that [livejournal.com profile] immortalradical and I had at Strange Horizons the other week, and from this conversation about valid critical opinions (which itself spun off from this post by Matt Cheney about this story by Eliot Fintushel), [livejournal.com profile] greengolux has a fascinating post here about accessibility as a quality of fiction:
The questions I've been asking myself in relation to all this are: can a reader who is outside of the target audience make a reasonable judgement about the quality of a work, and can a work's overall quality be judged on the size of the audience it's targeted at?
These are not questions with particularly easy or obvious answers, as the resulting discussion shows. They are also questions that come up time and again in discussions about sf, as John Scalzi's recent discussions about 'entry-level' science fiction, and all the satellite discussions of that concept, demonstrate.

After linking to all that discussion, I'm not sure there's a lot I can add, except a brief position statement. I think the answer to [livejournal.com profile] greengolux's first question has to be 'yes and no'. Everyone's entitled to their opinion, and I'm sure I'm on record somewhere as saying that an outside (or 'naive', for non-pejorative values of 'naive') perspective is valuable. It's one of the reasons I value [livejournal.com profile] immortalradical's reviews, and more broadly, why some of the most interesting and useful reviews can be the ones I disagree with. But I also think that, as an outsider to something, it is possible to Just Not Get It. Like [livejournal.com profile] greengolux, that's my basic reaction to Jane Austen, and although I would defend my right to have my opinions of Austen's books, I fully accept that I don't have a lot to bring to an informed discussion of her work.

I could learn, of course--any set of reference points can be learned--and that brings us to the second question. Primarily because context is learnable, I strongly doubt that the size of a work's audience has any bearing on the assessment of a work's quality. On the part of the writer, I am skeptical of the idea that aiming for universality is a good thing, or even a possible thing; I'm not even sure what a universal story would be, or what it could say. On the part of the reader, I am skeptical of the idea that that barriers to entry are inherently bad things. Just because I wouldn't give someone who's never read sf Accelerando doesn't make it a bad book, and just because anyone with a reading age in double digits can pick up The Da Vinci Code doesn't make it a good book. Historical context, or conceptual density, or linguistic complexity, or literary context--all of those are things that an individual reader may or may not appreciate. It is not the work's fault if a reader doesn't appreciate its strengths (indeed, it can be a shame, but it's not anyone's fault as such).

Yes, writing within a context may limit the audience to which a book is accessible, and yes, that has to be accepted--and yes, such writing can be artistically limited as well. I'm not excusing works that, to borrow [livejournal.com profile] immortalradical's phrase, preach 'a weak sermon to the baying choir'. It's just that the flipside to those books--the books that extend or develop an ongoing argument (which is one of the things I suggest Learning the World does), or that explore their context in minute depth (say, The Name of the Rose)--are, not infrequently, the books I wouldn't give up for the world.

(Bonus marks for anyone who can link this debate back into the self-indulgence debate of earlier in the year, thus constructing a hideous meta-debate impenetrable to anyone who hasn't read fifty posts on two dozen different blogs. Go on, I bet it'd be easy.)

EDIT: [livejournal.com profile] zarabee comments on accessibility here, and [livejournal.com profile] sartorias does the same here.
coalescent: (Default)
Or more accurately, of yesterday, but I forgot to link it then so I link it now: Geneva writes about subjectivity and evaluating literature:
Sometimes I want critical analysis to provide reasons that will show other people why they should like the books I like. Not because I think everyone should like exactly what I like, but because if I think a book is really good then I want to share that with people, give them the opportunity to get the same sort of experience out of reading the book that I got. But critical analysis can't and won't provide reasons like that. The best it can do is provide reasons why a reader who reads and appreciates literature in the same way as I do will like the book in question.

That's the best I can hope for as a reviewer. That whatever I write will communicate to people who know my tastes what they can expect from the book, given how what I like compares to what they like. The aims of reviewing are different from the aims of academic philosophical writing, and I've got to adjust to that. In philosophy there's no room for mere opinion, you're writing to convincingly and objectively argue your case, aiming to persuade everyone who reads your argument that you are right with cold, hard logic. Whereas reviewing is all about opinion, it's never going to convince everyone, isn't even supposed to. An objective reviewer is an oxymoron.
Lots of interesting stuff in the comments, too.
coalescent: (Default)
One of my many, many memories from Worldcon is a brief conversation with [livejournal.com profile] grahamsleight and [livejournal.com profile] mattia about bad habits in reviews. The initial reason for the conversation was my review of Accelerando in the latest Interzone, which I feel indulges in a bad habit.

It was the first piece I wrote for them, and the first time I tried to compress a coherent judgement into 400 words. I mostly stand by the content, but I don't think I got the construction of it quite right. I don't think it's a bad review, as such, but for instance (as [livejournal.com profile] nuttyxander pointed out) given the readership of Interzone and the limited space available, I probably spent more time than I needed to explaining what the book is and what it's about. And then there's the last sentence, in which I descended to blurbing.
Welcome to millennium three, decade one: science fiction isn't the same any more.
I cringe every time I look at it, not so much because I don't believe it--sure, it's an overstatement, but whatever you want to say about the merits of Accelerando I think you have to recognise its importance--but because I know I wrote that sentence to look like something that might appear on the back of a book. And that's the first thing I was saying to Graham and Mattia that Critics Should Not Do. The review doesn't need it (and publishers should be made to work for their blurbs, dammit!)

The second thing we discussed was a construction that I know I've been guilty of in the past, but which I'm finding more and more annoying: saying that something is 'genuinely moving' or similar. The problem with it is that it's language inflation, and redundant. The reader should be able to trust the venue the review is appearing in, or possibly the author of the review; that 'genuinely' is an attempt to gain trust by trickery.

On the other hand, there's this, via Gwenda Bond and Chance:
There are many words and phrases that should be forever kept out of the hands of book reviewers. It's sad, but true. And one of these is "self-indulgent." Whoever reviewed Neil's new novel, Anansi Boys, for Kirkus calls it "self-indulgent" (though the review is, generally, positive). And this is one of those things that strikes me very odd, like reviewers accusing an author of writing in a way that seems "artificial" or "self-conscious." It is, of course, a necessary prerequisite of fiction that one employ the artifice of language and that one exist in an intensely self-conscious state. Same with "self-indulgent." What could possibly be more self-indulgent than the act of writing fantastic fiction? The author is indulging her- or himself in the expression of the fantasy, and, likewise, the readers are indulging themselves in the luxury of someone else's fantasy. I've never written a story that wasn't self-indulgent. Neither has any other fantasy or sf author. We indulge our interests, our obsessions, and assume that someone out there will feel as passionately about X as we do.
This is true and completely wrongheaded. The part about assuming (I've have gone with 'hoping', but whatever) that readers will be interested in what an author is interested in is true. The suggestion that a book cannot be criticised for being self-indulgent (or that any perceived self-indulgence is merely the result of a disconnect between author and reader) is wrongheaded.

It is certainly something that should only be said carefully, because it starts to edge towards judging authorial intent, which is a minefield (I feel confident saying that a book proposes x or y; I generally feel much less comfortable saying that an author proposes x or y, unless I have external knowledge to support me). And a self-indulgent novel can be a hugely enjoyable novel. For example, Neal Stephenson's Cryptonomicon (and, from what I hear, The Baroque Cycle) would seem to be exactly the type of writing that [livejournal.com profile] greygirlbeast describes. It is frequently and entertainingly digressive, and it is unashamedly targeted at a particular audience. If you are not in that audience, you may well experience the sort of disconnect that [livejournal.com profile] robyn_ma describes.

However, compare it to Accelerando, which I would expect to have a significant audience overlap. Both cram in more cool things than you can count, both have main characters who are geeks, both have plots in which aspects of information technology are important. Of the two, however, Accelerando is the more focused, the more disciplined; you don't have to put up with digressions to get the cool stuff, you get the cool stuff as an integral part of the novel. It makes its cool stuff interesting to you, it doesn't assume that you will already like it. I would call Cryptonomicon self-indulgent, but I would not say the same of Accelerando.

I seem to be circling around the idea that an author has a contract with a reader to tell a story. That seems a bit strong--clearly wonderful books can be written that pay only lip-service to any such contract. Perhaps what I'm really saying is that I'm just healthily skeptical of the idea that authors are writing only for themselves.

EDIT: Matt Cheney writes:
I should probably note here that I'm not suggesting the reviewers are all maligning masterpieces. A judgment of whether a work is worthwhile or not is less interesting to me than how such a conclusion is reached (call me self-indulgent). It's not the inaccuracy of the term that bothers me so much as the argument it hides: an accusation of self-indulgence, like an accusation of "elitism", lets a reviewer disguise the fact that they're trying to speak for some imaginary mass audience, to say "I did not understand/appreciate/enjoy X, and therefore you should not, either." (Which is essentially what one of the commentors to Kiernan's post suggested: "So, the reviewer is basically saying, 'It doesn't interest me, so it shouldn't interest anyone else,' but taking a roundabout way of saying it so as, perhaps, to stave of consciousness of this indiscretion.") I suppose all of us who make our opinions public are doing this to some extent, trying to shape a consensus to make ourselves feel less alone, but there are many more subtle, nuanced, and useful ways of doing it than throwing around terms like "self-indulgent".
I don't find the hidden argument as strong as he does. I don't see the shouldn't. When I see a reviewer describe something as self-indulgent, I assume they're trying to say something like 'I lost interest because it has [these qualities for which I am using self-indulgent as a shorthand that I don't care for], therefore you may also lose interest'. There is some judgement, in that the reviewer can be suggesting those qualities are wrong rather than just not to their taste, but I think the real problems come in when the reviewer doesn't make it clear which qualities of the text they're criticising. Which, I guess, means I agree that 'self indulgent' is not subtle or nuanced; I'm just not sure that stops it sometimes being useful.

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