Aug 30, 2015 05:15 PM
http://www.nytimes.com/2015/08/31/opinio...ctive.html
EXCERPT: There are many unspoken postulates in literary criticism, one being that the more one writes, the less remarkable one’s work is apt to be. [...] As with most postulates dealing with subjective perceptions, the idea that prolific writing equals bad writing must be treated with caution. Mostly, it seems to be true.
Certainly no one is going to induct the mystery novelist John Creasey, author of 564 novels under 21 different pseudonyms, into the Literary Hall of Heroes; both he and his creations (the Toff, Inspector Roger West, Sexton Blake, etc.) have largely been forgotten. The same is true of the British novelist Ursula Bloom (over 500 published works, under many pseudonyms), Barbara Cartland (over 700) and a host of others. One is reminded of Truman Capote’s famous bon mot about Jack Kerouac: “That’s not writing, that’s typing.”
Yet some prolific writers have made a deep impression on the public consciousness. [...] Those novels may not be literary, but they are far above the porridge turned out by John Creasey, and some of them are strikingly good. [Agatha] Christie gave us two characters — Miss Marple and Hercule Poirot — who have achieved a kind of immortality. Add to this the stylistic and thematic unity of Christie’s novels (the cozy warmth of the settings and the British stereotypes, placed within the context of her surprisingly cold appraisal of human nature), and one must view those many books in a different light.
The same can be said of the prolific, mid-20th-century writer John D. MacDonald. [...] many of his [...] novels are an indigestible mix [...] but when MacDonald forgot about his literary heroes and wrote strictly for himself, he did striking work.
No one in his or her right mind would argue that quantity guarantees quality, but to suggest that quantity never produces quality strikes me as snobbish, inane and demonstrably untrue....
EXCERPT: There are many unspoken postulates in literary criticism, one being that the more one writes, the less remarkable one’s work is apt to be. [...] As with most postulates dealing with subjective perceptions, the idea that prolific writing equals bad writing must be treated with caution. Mostly, it seems to be true.
Certainly no one is going to induct the mystery novelist John Creasey, author of 564 novels under 21 different pseudonyms, into the Literary Hall of Heroes; both he and his creations (the Toff, Inspector Roger West, Sexton Blake, etc.) have largely been forgotten. The same is true of the British novelist Ursula Bloom (over 500 published works, under many pseudonyms), Barbara Cartland (over 700) and a host of others. One is reminded of Truman Capote’s famous bon mot about Jack Kerouac: “That’s not writing, that’s typing.”
Yet some prolific writers have made a deep impression on the public consciousness. [...] Those novels may not be literary, but they are far above the porridge turned out by John Creasey, and some of them are strikingly good. [Agatha] Christie gave us two characters — Miss Marple and Hercule Poirot — who have achieved a kind of immortality. Add to this the stylistic and thematic unity of Christie’s novels (the cozy warmth of the settings and the British stereotypes, placed within the context of her surprisingly cold appraisal of human nature), and one must view those many books in a different light.
The same can be said of the prolific, mid-20th-century writer John D. MacDonald. [...] many of his [...] novels are an indigestible mix [...] but when MacDonald forgot about his literary heroes and wrote strictly for himself, he did striking work.
No one in his or her right mind would argue that quantity guarantees quality, but to suggest that quantity never produces quality strikes me as snobbish, inane and demonstrably untrue....
