The whole 50 Shades debacle is the latest of an entire series of its kind. The ecosystem of modern publishing doesn't strike one as exclusively healthy – but there's nothing wrong with it, per se. Or so one thinks, ultimately the nonfiction lists aren't really super hopeful either. But there's also sometimes interesting stuff. Whether or not it's brewed by committee, exploits the zeitgeist, and has 'buzz' and 'word of mouth' and 'traction' are the great indicators of sales. Commercial success nullifies critical success and proves the naysayers wrong, inept, and out of touch. Or it should/might/doesn't, depending on how you feel about unlimited free market, incorporated.
The funny thing is, in this era dictionaries have actually created entries on mots célèbre that have no longevity or ultimate worth. I'm looking at you, 'frenemy'. The news crowed joyously about frenemy and friends getting into Webster and Oxford for the better part of a week, probably more than 12 months ago now. What increases the hilarity factor is that the conservative book set (most publishers, consumers, etc) actually sees the potential for twitter literature as a good thing. They might shit if it was considered to switch to a pure paperless market (which is sort of a scary idea when one considers it), but they will fill their own pages with the sort of meaningless colloquial twaddle that has no fundamental role in language. The white noise of language and of literature, and the much hyped 'echo chamber' effect of Twitter is involved somehow. Publishers bank on books that are too big to fail and they go to town whenever some book becomes so important that everyone needs a copy right now. They aim to remain relevant as opposed to fundamental. Language skills and general output are fucked enough without a neoliberal approach to neologisms.
So if you really think about the situation as it stands, the publishing ecosystem is a bit like every other large-scale market ecosystem: some smaller companies, independent organizations, and identities cling to the vestiges with varying success; by and large it consists of gigantic entities producing essentially a monoculture. So what? The incredible size and awesome power of these entities is something that should inspire us, their offerings are delivered with unthinkable force to vast numbers, on a scale that was relatively recently unthinkable. This is no minor business, even this allegedly 'dying' publishing industry.
There exists more written word than can be reliably processed by any one person. This condition is hardly new or revelatory, but it seems worth mentioning no matter how many thousands of years it's been true. Seeing as the human world still exists, and written word is still very essential to its development and even survival, the immense pile of written work should not merely be considered refuse. Some of it obviously stinks, but it's necessary.
Still. At this advanced stage the offerings aren't always on the level. The fact that one book hangs onto a bestseller list for months, in one country, means that not enough books are being shared, or that the market isn't dynamic enough, or anything because its actual value cannot be the ultimate monetary sum represented by its time on the bestseller lists. All of which is beside the point, I know.
I admit it's ironic to complain about the immense volume of words and written things via an internet blog, which is only extra entropy into the bargain. It's adding to the problem. It's completely hilarious, and it's self indicting. It's crazy. But most likely, if you are reading this, you are a person who reads for whatever reason. You would be flattering yourself to consider your attachment to words Machiavellian. It's, at best, codependent.
So there are these hugely successful books that feed on some unconscious herd instinct to enjoy awful things of dubious quality. Again, it's all free market – so, fine, also it sometimes works out for inoffensive, noteworthy, sterling, or even innovative and laudable efforts. Sometimes. Other times it's like 50 Shades, and it's a Big Deal you don't want to be outside of. Mostly 50 Shades is a retreading of the Twilight series, even though that is reductionist and it only took root as a fanfiction. Fanfiction, internet, twitter hype, blogs and the vacuous content farming future: we're back on familiar ground. The book either does not advance the argument or dramatic mechanisms of Twilight, or feeds on the same kind of consumer. As a paean to its predecessor, at least in origins, it's fair for snap-target judgements. It's bigger than Zizec will ever be, to our shame, and assuming anyone remembers us. It's bigger than Benjamin Franklin, Ayn Rand, and it outsold Harry Potter – it dwarfs Dickens and has eclipsed Twilight for the moment. Obama couldn't sell half as many books; the guy who shot bin Laden won't. Fucking J.R.R. Tolkien.
I heard about it on TV sometime and thought, "Gee I wonder if a bestseller hyped on television would be any good or not make me want to commit suicide as a writer." The rest of the story fell into place so neatly that I thought I was going to wake up any second. My time since has been full of anxiety and stress. It seems hopeless. My favorite authors are all dead or past their prime, and I generally scoff at the copy I find in the world (even ruling out typos and malapropisms), so I am the wrong audience for such a book as 50 Shades of Grey or either of its sequels. Still, I am the right audience for agonizing realizations about what's happening with books and the so-called culture that they engender. As great as reading is, it seems like the industry that feeds
I don't want to censor 50 Shades. I'm not angry that it's a big thing, because it's the least of anyone's concerns right now and is at least churning some minor economic cogs, but I think it paints a bleak picture of the readership. Maybe even our politicians shouldn't be able, encouraged, or allowed to articulate themselves – it's not like they really need to, anymore. It may come across as elitist or snobbish, and a little bit of pulpy garbage is as harmless as candy or carbonated beverages, but there are so many books that are simply healthier, that are written more soundly, that propose challenging or inspiring ideas. Or new narratives, brutally real characters, or intensely amusing situations. 'The End of Men' intersects with 50 Shades of Grey, it has to, chronologically speaking, but where and how? What are the numbers on that? Which was ultimately the bigger hype? Are they Siamese products of the same Manchurian context?
One may admit that, in a strange and sordid way, a 22 year old virgin meeting an experienced 27 year old is compelling and erotic. It's also basically a story from hundreds of years ago. Old news. It's also a thing that happens in real life. Could be happening right now. Jane Austen wrote about that sort of thing. She did it better, and she didn't have to titillate (much). She was substance over style. So were Carlyle, George Sand, or Virginia Woolf, to name but a few. It wasn't all creepy unrealistic dingbat business between vaguely human characters. And the highbrow offerings aren't exempt, what with their consistent multi-generational dramas with subtle intrigues and heartwarming messages, but at least they're somewhat the product of craft over hype – it's why they don't thrive: they're all growing in the twilit shadow of the million dollar page.
That's the only real narrative these days. Money is the only legitimate voice, consumption the only true prayer for hope, and celebrity is the priesthood. And, dude, it's totally fine if you toil in the shadows or have your dumb thoughts about it, as long as you don't get weird about it and you keep doing your own thing. You just can't shout 'Fire!' in a crowded inferno or people might laugh before arresting you. It might hurt your chances.
"In meaning, and meaning only, one cannot slack."
- attributed to unnamed, loathsome 'hippy' philosopher.
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