Literary & Commercial Fiction: Developing A Taste for the Difference

Posted by J. Mark Bertrand
on Tuesday, October 12, 2004
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If you are one of those readers who is skeptical of the distinction between literary and commercial fiction, I have an exercise to propose. It may help answer the nagging question, "What is the difference between the two?" The typical answers -- that literary fiction is artistic while commercial fiction is market-driven, that literary fiction is original while commerical fiction is formulaic -- don't always suffice. Like many questions of taste, you have to develop a feel for each before you can distinguish between the two. But how do you do it? I have an idea. Pick up a copy of Graham Swift's The Light of Day and read it alongside a novel by Ian Rankin.

I'm fond of both of these authors. Swift wrote Waterland, which was made into one of my favorite Jeremy Irons movies, and Rankin is the author of the bestselling series of Rebus books, set in brooding, moody Edinburgh. Swift is unquestionably a literary author (Last Orders picked up a Booker Prize) and Rankin is a commerical author at the top of his genre (Resurrection Men got an Edgar Award). A week ago, I was cruising the stacks at the Brazos Bookstore, where I discovered that The Light of Day, Swift's latest book, appropriates the detective genre to tell what The Philadelphia Enquirer deemed "a love story of peculiar poignancy and power." Martin Amis, another luminary of the literati, pulled off something similar in his book Night Train. Since I like Swift and enjoyed the idea of a literary take on one of my favorite genres, I snatched up the book and read it this weekend while I was in Vail.

It just so happened that I was reading Ian Rankin's latest, Fleshmarket Close, at the same time. Amazon UK shipped me the hardback a few days before my visit to the bookstore, so I was half-way through before leaving it in favor of The Light of Day. So here we have two brilliant authors working with elements of the same genre, and the contrast between them sheds some light on the different aims of literary and commercial fiction. Rankin creates vivid scenes, thick atmosphere and interesting characters. There is nothing unsatisfying or shoddy about his work. But there is a certain point beyond which he does not go. He tells the story, and that's all that he does. It's interesting, and that's all it is. A year from now, I probably won't remember the details -- just like I can't recall the specifics of Set In Darkness and The Falls. I'm not complaining, though; I'm thoroughly satisfied with what Rankin has done -- otherwise, I wouldn't have the UK first editions arriving fresh off the press at my door.

Graham Swift is operating on a whole other level, though. He uses the detective story to delve into his character -- and more importantly, into life and love -- in a way that Rankin doesn't. The entire story takes place during the course of a single day as the detective, George Webb, a DI drummed out of CID and forced into private practice for corruption, makes a pilgrimage to the prison where the woman he loves is doing time for the murder of her husband. To tell Webb's story, Swift "deftly move[s] back and forth in time to build suspense" (New York Times), a technique both complex and resonant. The prose is not the awful, flowery, over-written stuff that characterizes the stereotypical Oprah book; in fact, it is leaner and simpler than Rankin's. But it builds layer upon layer in a way that the commercial writer doesn't. In a sense, it has to, because Swift isn't just writing a detective story. He wants to do more, so more is required. Consider this scene starting on page 181, where Webb contrasts his own upbringing with that of his ex-wife Rachel, who defied her God-fearing parents without escaping their concept of the divine judge:

I wasn't brought up like Rachel. But you pick things up about God. You pick up his scent, like the smell of church. And I remember some passage being read out somewhere, that there's no sinner so bad, so worthless, that God will ever let them slip through the net of his love.

Rachel never quite gave him up, that's what I think.

And whether he's up there or not, and whether he's got a net, I don't know. But I think it's how it ought to be just among us. There ought to be at least one other person who won't let us slip through their net. No matter what we do, no matter what we've done. It's not a question of right or wrong. It's not a question of justice....

No matter what we do, no matter how bad. If we're found to be corrupt. Even if we do the worst thing ever, even if we do what we never thought it was in us to do, and kill another person. Even if that other person was once the person for whom we were holding out the net.

Reading that passage, I started thinking along theological lines, and that's something that isn't likely to happen reading Fleshmarket Close. Literary fiction may not seem too different from its commercial cousin, but ultimately, the distinction lies in its ambition. Literary fiction wants to talk about more than the story itself. It wants to entertain, but to do more than entertain. It wants to give you the story and all the ideas the story conjures up, too.

There are disasterous examples of both types of writing, but you won't learn to appreciate their differences by dwelling on the failures. Reading The Light of Day and Fleshmarket Close together is a better idea -- an example of excellent literary fiction side-by-side with an example of excellent commerical fiction. Affirming the wider, deeper aim of literary fiction does nothing to diminish the value of commercial fiction, especially when it is as well done as Rankin's is. But there is a difference, and this is one way you might develop a feel for what that difference is.