Generation Gaps

It was with considerable interest that I read Ed Gorman’s recent dispatch on how tastes change with each generation:

A good number of the over-fifty writers–my peer group–will tell you in whispers that they don’t like much of today’s crime fiction. Some of this is said jealously, of course, but most of it I think is simply the changing of generations. The things writers my age venerate are not to be found in the young writers of today. And why should they be? They think differently from us, write differently, market differently and are more attractive to publishers and booksellers alike because they’re going to be around a lot longer than we are–and are thus worth investing money and time in. There are exceptions to this, of course. But is it surprising that there’d been a schism in the taste of literary generations? Think of Hammett’s attack on Ellery Queen.

Bill Crider, who originally linked to the piece, responded with some additional commentary:

What Ed Gorman is saying here is that he (and I and guys like us) have become old farts. And I guess he’s right. [W]hen it comes to crime novels, give me Gold Medal. It’s not that I don’t like some of today’s books. I read a good many of them, actually. But I don’t admire them the way younger people do. I prefer the Good Old Stuff. Like the one I mentioned yesterday, River Girl. I think it’s terrific, but the fact is that probably no editor today would buy it. It lacks the amped-up action, the “social siginificance,” the outrageous premise that readers these days seem to crave. It’s just good writing, smooth pacing, and masterful storytelling.

Now, there are so many things to consider in these two posts: the “Good Old Days” effect, whether it’s right (or wrong) that the younger folk tend to look at older people, ideas, and works with some degree of disdain, and why there can’t be more common ground. But I want to broaden the context a little more, because I’m not sure it’s simply a question of taste, but more of how works become part of the canon and whether there should be any immutable, absolute members of such.

In other words, what is a classic? How does such a work have the same meaning for older readers and writers as they could for younger ones? And how does the framework change?

When I started reading crime fiction seriously about five and a half years ago, I began with contemporary writers. Who would appeal to me, and who were the best? I’d previously read Agatha Christie, which is a rite of passage but one that I safely assumed I’d completed (and, in fact, I haven’t read any books by her since.) I’d tried a couple of books by Sue Grafton and Sara Paretsky but they didn’t click for me at the time. Walter Mosley was good—very good—but I fell out of touch with him and with Easy Rawlins. But 1999 was the year I discovered people like Harlan Coben, whose Myron Bolitar books I read in rapid succession, and Dennis Lehane, who was the subject of a similar glom. Eventually they led me to Robert Crais, Michael Connelly, Laura Lippman, S.J. Rozan, and of course, many others that I either talk about at length here or assume that most of the people reading this blog already read. My taste for harder-boiled, more socially aware crime fiction was established fairly early on. The UK bent came later, and occasionally I mix things up with some historical fiction and a couple of cozy-esque books.

But I got to earlier writers later, and even then, my tastes aren’t necessarily what’s considered to be canon. I love Donald Westlake, and I need not enumerate the reasons why Ross Thomas is perhaps my favorite crime novelist. Dorothy B. Hughes is doing it for me bigtime, and I’m really looking forward to reading the rest of her work after being incredibly impressed with IN A LONELY PLACE and THE BLACKBIRDER. But here come the shameful admissions: I’ve read one book by Raymond Chandler (THE BIG SLEEP) and one by Dashiell Hammett (THE MALTESE FALCON). I’ve tried a couple of Robert B. Parker’s earlier books, and enjoyed them, but feel no need to read the rest of the Spenser series. I’ve not yet read Ross MacDonald or John D. MacDonald, and I’ve only just begun with Charles Willeford. Woolrich, Goodis? Nope, not yet. I read Jim Thompson’s THE KILLER INSIDE ME, but something felt curiously missing, and I’m not sure I want to try more of his work.

So one conclusion to draw is that I’m way behind on the earlier literature, and that would be true. I do want to catch up, and even had hopes of doing so this past summer, though that didn’t happen. No doubt I’ll have the rest of my life to do so, but then again, will I? Or will I even want to?

Another conclusion is that maybe, just maybe, these books don’t have as absolute an appeal as many think they do. Younger writers like myself are influenced by so many other things—not just other media, like television, the Internet, music—but by different forms of subgenre, different regions, and the current clamoring for high concepts and faster pace. We may see writers like the ones I’ve mentioned who broaden the scope of what’s capable in crime fiction and think that we can do that—and then some. Add something extra to the mix, expand, or alter. We’re looking for books that we can deem as our classics, not books that others have deemed as such already. And then we want to understand what makes them work and build from there.

Maybe there’s a bit of a Xerox effect. People are influenced second, third or fourth-hand by older books and there’s a filtering effect, so much so that when the classics themselves are examined, they somehow pale in comparison. Oh, we know what’s going to happen, what effects are going to be used. Or maybe it’s simply a question of tastes changing, as Ed Gorman says. Although I have what I hope is a fair idea of which contemporary crime novels will endure as “classics,” it’s a dangerous game to play. No doubt loads of now-forgotten writers from several decades ago were expected to be remembered today, and of course, they aren’t. Some are on the verge of rediscovery, and I’m glad of that. Hughes, James McKimmey, and perhaps Day Keene and Charles Williams. Hopefully some other female writers will merit rediscovery. Or maybe not, because in five, ten years writers who fell out of print in the 80s and 90s will have their turn for their renaissance.

I suppose, should I ever be asked the age-old “who are your influences” question, I may think of Hammett and Chandler, but only briefly. They may be classic writers, but they aren’t my classic writers. And somehow I doubt I’m the only one who thinks this.