Nicholas Clee thinks the rise of book clubs has coarsened literary debate
To criticise book clubs and reading groups is the act of a snob. They have been the most significant driver of book sales in the past few years - more influential than advertisements, features on Radio 4 or David Beckham. Only an elitist who wants to preserve books from the vulgar mob would express reservations. Oh well, here goes.
First, some background. The term "book club" - hitherto associated with mail-order operations such as the one run by BCA - began to take on new meaning in 1996, when Oprah Winfrey, queen of US television, introduced what she called a club to her show. Her picks invariably went on to sell a million copies or more.
Oprah was imitating, through a mass medium, the appeal of reading groups, which were proliferating in the US and in the UK. In addition to the Oprah bestsellers, there were reading group bestsellers: on any evening in the UK, titles such as Atonement by Ian McEwan and Unless by Carol Shields were the subjects of dozens of Chardonnay-fuelled debates.
Some snooty commentators doubted that the audience for the book club in Britain fronted by Richard and Judy, the Channel 4 teatime hosts, would have much influence on the book market. How wrong we were. Richard and Judy were "the biggest single drivers of book sales in 2004", according to the Bookseller. Joseph O'Connor's Star of the Sea, championed on air by Bob Geldof, sold more than half a million copies, transforming the author's fortunes. Books selected by Richard and Judy sold 4.3 million copies in total last year; eight of those books were among the year's 25 top-selling paperbacks. The 2005 choices are proving similarly popular.
Radio 4 has a book club, as do most national newspapers. In April, BBC1 will begin running Page Turners, in which Jeremy Vine and guests will debate the merits of books ranging from Inside Hitler's Bunker by Joachim Fest to Feast by Nigella Lawson. The growth of book clubs reflects a craving for trustworthy recommendation, as we are bombarded with claims on our time. It shows, too, a search for refuge from the fragmentation of society. Even reading, apparently a solitary pursuit, can be a shared experience.
With the promotion of reading for shared enjoyment and uplift, however, comes a coarsening of literary discourse. The way to get a lot of people to read a book is to encourage them to think that they will identify with the characters, that they will learn something, and that they will encounter themes that they can debate. But great literature does not necessarily encourage reader empathy; or it may encourage it, as for example Lolita does, for subversive purposes. A novel's worth is not determined by the relevance of its themes or the moral values it espouses. It is Vladimir Nabokov's stature as a writer that validates his treatment of a
man's obsession with an under-age girl, not the other way round.
Jonathan Franzen touched on these concerns when he
became, in Oprah Winfrey's words, "seemingly uncomfortable
and conflicted" about her championing of his novel The Corrections. He floundered somewhat as he tried to explain his position; but in essence his objections were that he was wary of being bracketed with so many writers whose work tended to be praised as "empowering", and that he did not care to see every copy of his novel so prominently stickered with the Oprah seal of approval. The Corrections was becoming a commodity, glossed for a mass audience. Delighted as I am that good books are receiving such prominent advocacy and are selling in such quantities, I can see Franzen's point.
Nicholas Clee is a former editor of the Bookseller magazine
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