A DISPUTE

Ten years ago, spinning up a bucolic country lane in the vintage Rolls-Royce of a rich friend — a writer of thrillers and historical novels — we began what became an unexpectedly heated debate. He mentioned that recently, at a literary party, a Booker Prize winner had patronised him.

“In what way?” I said.

“The details are too painful, but he was being pompous, if not downright rude.”

“Well, how did it start?”

“He made the claim that what he called ‘genre writing’ was of little literary merit.”

I kept quiet a moment, thinking this over. I had never been in a Rolls-Royce before and was enjoying the smoothness of the ride, and indeed the conversation. But I am not one to keep my mouth shut, especially as I tended to agree with the bold accusation levelled at my friend, who was the prototypical thriller writer of that time.

“What do you think?” he asked as we turned into a narrow lane, his leather driving gloves gripping the wheel.

“Surely you have to admit,” I said cautiously, “that there is a difference between Samuel Beckett and Elmore Leonard. I have always enjoyed Leonard’s writing, but there is definitely a category difference between the two.”

“But that’s an easy case,” said my host. “What about James Ellroy — doesn’t he have literary merit?”

“I wouldn’t say so.”

“Come on.”

“I wouldn’t.”

“What constitutes literary merit to you?”

I didn’t want to antagonise my friend, who was increasing his pressure on the gas. We were having a nice day; having had breakfast together, taken a turn in his pool, and I was looking forward to the rest of the weekend. But he was pressing me. Clearly this was a sensitive subject.

“Literary merit,” I said, “some people argue, encompasses prose style, but also a wide range of other things: class, power, place, psychology, politics.”

“Ellroy does this, does he not? His political reach and psychological insight?”

“Okay, he’s an exception, some of his work might be, anyway.”

“So, so now you agree that genre writing can have literary merit.”

I paused, fearing that we were entering a debate of examples and counter-examples.

“On occasion. I’ll give you that. Okay?”

But I could see my friend, who had sold over two hundred million copies, was not satisfied, and as we turned into his drive, to be met by his housekeeper and red setters, I wondered why it bothered him so much.

The next morning, we both worked; I on a rewrite of a short story to be published in a minor literary journal, and he on the third instalment of a monolithic trilogy, which would be shot next year as a major motion picture.

His staff had set an elegant lunch on the lawn, with linen and silver cutlery. We sat down, he poured the wine and, to my dismay, resumed the argument from yesterday.

“So,” he said, “Márquez, One Hundred Years of Solitude — what is that if not genre?”

“Excuse me?” I said.

He leaned towards me. “Magical realism, mate. And its literary merit is without doubt, isn’t it?”