Last night I get sucked into a discussion of how great War and Peace is and someone said sneeringly "you'd never see stuff like THAT published today", and then I find my poetic muse Miss Stander reading Proust and reminding me it wouldn't survive the Crapometer. (for those of you who've survived this long without reading ol' Marcel, the five volumes do indeed have a plot but it starts somewhere after page 200)
yea well, they're both right.
I'm ok with that.
We have NO idea what people are going to consider the great classics of this century. I only need say Melville, Caravaggio, or Richard Yates to illustrate my point.
Besides, it's not either/or. I may be reading The Inferno to get tuned up for editorial lunches, but I'm also reading Maggie Estep's latest.
Unlike almost every other art form, there's room for a lot of different kinds of taste treats at the biblio buffet. Madelines anyone?