Bayard: just when you thought it was safe to read again…

Pierre Bayard is back in the news and why not.

I’ve already written about his dismissal of the actual contents of a book in favour of one’s assumptions about it, his admission that he didn’t think it was necessary to read a book in order to teach or review it, and the absurdity of him publishing book given his feelings about reading. But I will admit that he makes one think.

In The Independent, John Litchfield writes the latest on this academic dandy, that he is questioning Conan Doyle’s solving of his own case. Given the evidence, Sherlock Holmes came to the wrong conclusion. And he’s off to correct Sophocles as well (details in the article).

I don’t mind the high profile of this man. I don’t agree with much of what he says but he’s got people talking about books and reading, and that’s a good thing. I much prefer this notoriety to that of a Britney Spears or Perez Hilton, where the fame is terribly out of proportion to accomplishments. I was going to call that sort of fame the dandruff or effluvia of society drawing the analogy that these things would always be with us but in polite company you shouldn’t point them out. But that would accord them too much importance as dandruff, effluvia, and other such things are byproducts of honest bodily functions. They do not even deserve the status of farts.

And in related literary news:

Recently in England an author won a lawsuit saying that fumes impaired her ability to write her usual highbrow material and had to resort to writing a thriller. She won despite the fact that she made more money with the thriller than her previous works. What is most disturbing though, and this will warrant a return to this issue, is the denigration of genre fiction. You write what you can. Genre writers are not lazy “literary” artists, and mainstream writers are no better than genre writers. Either attempting the other might fail miserably. Much as been made of John Banville’s Benjamin Black novels, as though there is something special about this lauded writer putting his pen to mysteries. There is nothing wrong with him doing it but the emphasis on it, and the overvaluing of his two books, pays a disservice to the many people who have been doing remarkable work in the genre for years.

And finally:

In the New Yorker, John Updike has an appreciation of the unique and profound Flann O’Brian. His work is one of the biggest reasons the Irish are considered great writers.