Stephen King, The New York Times, and Kulchur

As much as I love my Ulysses, my Bleak House, and my Eliot, I love my Stephen King. Indeed, I’ve a thing for the horror genre (oh, sure—I’ve probably got some dysfunctional psychological mechanism that prompts this taste, but what the hell). I’ve just finished King’s most recent novel, Duma Key, which was fine. It wasn’t overwhelming in characterization, in atmosphere, or in thrills, but it was King. I’m mighty fond of his plainspoken, intertextual, pop-culturally literate storytelling that focuses on quirky, but often quite normal folks. King reflects and recreates contemporary Americana much as Dickens did with Victoriana (and not the frilly, silly kind). Are his works “lowbrow”? At this time, many would say “yes.” In the future? Well, who knows how readers of 2042 will view King. Y’all know that Dickens was a pop culture writer, correct? And yes, the term “pop culture” is a fairly recent invention, as is the distinction between “high” and “low” culture (see Huyssen, After the Great Divide, for just one text that deals with the categorization of “high culture” and “mass culture” as a modern phenomenon). The latter point brings us back to Duma Key, and a response I’ve been itching to make for the past month.

The novel received an “iffy” review from James Campbell in a March 2^nd New York Times book review. It was an average review (and I’d qualify the novel as “average.” Sorry SK. I did enjoy Lisey's Story though); Campbell neither damned nor celebrated the novel. What I found interesting, however, was Campbell’s discussion of the high/low divide, which essentially branded King, and other popular writers, as contributing little more to culture than commercial revenue.

In 2003, King was awarded with National Book Foundation’s Medal for Distinguished Contribution to American Letters. In his review, Campbell draws on King’s acceptance speech (in full here), specifically, King’s references to those who “‘make a point of pride’ of choosing not to read John Grisham, Clive Barker, or Mary Higgins Clark: ‘What do you think? You get social or academic brownie points for deliberately staying out of touch with your own culture?’” (King qtd. in Campbell). Campbell cites King’s reprimand to those who resist pop lit (several of whom, apparently, resisted the NBF’s decision to award King the medal). Fair enough. Unfortunately, Campbell then distorts and inverts King’s argument so that it becomes a sort of reverse-snobbery as he suggests that King supports a culture defined by commercial interests: “[l]eaving aside the discourtesy of suggesting that his listeners’ reading habits were directed by snobbery rather than taste, the remark posits a view of a culture based not on the best that is thought and said, but on the highest returns at the cash register” (Campbell). Firstly, King targets readers who “make [it] a point of pride” to reject popular fiction out of hand, not people who simply don’t enjoy it. I think it’s safe to say that the former type indeed practices cultural snobbery. Such behavior brings to mind some of my more smug acquaintances who assert “I never watch reality shows because they’re for the sheep. No one of any intellect would watch American Idol or Survivor [etc.].” I’m not saying that people should watch reality shows if they’re sincerely uninterested in them, but taking pride in the wholesale rejection of said shows speaks volumes about the insecurities of the person who must appear culturally superior (which smacks of the poseur).

Moreover, culture is more than Matthew Arnold’s definition of “the best that is thought or said”; culture is, if the Oxford English Dictionary is to be trusted, “The distinctive ideas, customs, social behaviour, products, or way of life of a particular society, people, or period. Hence: a society or group characterized by such customs, etc.” This prosaic, rather than romantic or idealistic, definition is inclusive and involves all members of society as they both consume and contribute to culture, be it the jazz connoisseurs or the hip-hoppers, the opera supporters or the Celine Dion fans (okay—maybe that’s stretching it, but you get the point), the Stephen Kings or the William Faulkners.

Despite complaining about King’s complaints, Campbell narrows his argument by returning his focus to Duma Key. However, he tries to have it two ways in qualifying the novel’s cultural status: first, he attempts to measure Duma Key against a definition of “literary fiction”—a standard that the novel fails to meet (and a criteria King has never claimed of his work). After Campbell negates the novel’s “literary” value, he judges the book on its merits as pop fiction by noting (in a modification of a Wildean epigram) that “there is no such thing as popular or literary fiction. ‘Books are well written or badly written. That is all.’” And while this remark might target Duma Key, questioning its status as “well written,” which is fair, this concluding statement’s generosity in resisting a divide between “literary” and “popular” rings false, for Campbell has, indeed, re-inscribed the difference between “literary” and “popular” fiction, explicitly and implicitly, several times in the body of his review.

King doesn’t claim to write great literature; the man consistently refers to himself as a storyteller. It’s interesting that others insist on making the distinction between “high art” and King’s craft as though he’s presuming to be an artiste and intruding on “proper writers’” literary space. Ah, well. So goes the neverending kulchur war. Cheers, Mr. “sweetness and light,” you old tastemaker you.

Update, 09 April: I've just discovered a review of Campbell's review over at The Seated View. It's a treat.