Genre fiction is low, shitty literature. Yet, modern critics still monitor the form as a faithful barometer of societal prejudices, gender norms, ideology and ethos. We could say that today's kitsch novels say as much about us, the readers, as the fiction narrated.
[This is the first in what will be a not-too-regular series loosely called "literature review." I was struck by Spencer Hall's marauding piece on the Istanbul Derby today, and I here expand on some of his observations and offer a sort of aesthetic response to such a fascinating artifact of sports journalism.]