case —at which the works of pure storytellers are discussed in seriousrnterms. It is hard to conceive of a symposium for which thernprogram would be announced as: “Social and Cultural hnplications:rn3 May. Bistritz. Left Munich at 8:35 P.M. on 1st May,rnarriving at Vienna early next morning.'” This, of course, is thernopening line of Bram Stoker’s Dracula, one of the most celebratedrnnovels of all time, unfortunately remembered todayrnmore for Bela Lugosi’s lurid 1931 film portrayal of the countrnthan for the fact that the book was considered, at the time of itsrnpublication in 1897, a tour de force of straightforward storytelling,rnheavy with histor)- and atmosphere, however peculiar.rnThe newer literary lions, such as the “brat-packers” of thern1980’s, seem to think that telling a story involves little more thanrnthe use of entire laundry lists of brand-name consumer items tornset a scene and define a social milieu so that, rather than creatingrnmemorable people with their own idiosyncrasies, the picturesrndrawn are of cliched characters wearing Nikes or smokingrnMarlboros, drinking a certain vodka or reeking of a particularrnfashionable cologne. Restless and misdirected, they drift fromrnrestaurant to nightclub to apartment to bed and back again, possessingrn(like their authors) little genuine sense of moralit}’ orrnethics. To be sure. Jay Mclnerney and Bret Easton Ellis andrntheir cohorts have appeared in public to fulminate about therneils of capitalism, Ronald Reagan, and Newt Gingrich and tornair arious inane personal grievances, but one wonders how differentrntheir outlook on all this would be had Brezhnev or Gorbache’rnbecome president of the United States. In the practicernof their craft, these literar)’ yoimgsters—who are no longer sorn}oung, although their public displays of pique and noisy tiradesrnin crowded restaurants about bad reviews are adolescent in theirrnwhiny self-involvement—show only marginal talents for plotrnand character. In their arrogance as self-proclaimed social critics,rnthey would not be pleased to hear their work compared withrnthat of Judith Krantz and Danielle Steel, neither of them elegantrnstylists but both perfectly respectable storytellers.rnPopular literature, in both theory and practice, can encompassrnmany different t}’pes of novel: thrillers, stories aboutrnfamily life, the business world, entertainment, sports, academe,rnthe cities, the wide-open spaces of the American West. Therernhave been, through the years, a great many writers who have operatedrnin these areas, excellent at their craft even if, in some cases,rnonly up to a point. Mention any one of their names to an ostentatiouslyrn”literar)'” writer and the atmosphere suddenly turnsrnvery dark indeed: Suggestions of philistinism, questionablerntaste, or, worst of all to some, the failure to be hip, hang in thernair, unpleasant for everyone within earshot unless the more sensiblernpoint out, if they dare, that Sinclair Lewis, F. Scott Fitzgerald,rnJohn Steinbeck, Graham Greene (abominable phonyrnthough he might have been personally, as Paul Johnson hasrnpointed out), and even such modernists as J.D. Salinger all wererngood \ ith a storv. The later generations that produced suchrnwriters as Updike, Joyce Carol Gates, Don DeLillo, and MartinrnAmis have been well represented by these and others, all ofrnthem regarded as literary, but all perfectly capable of telling intriguingrnstories that illuminate different elements of societ)’ andrnhold the reader’s attention. They might appear on literary panelsrnto discuss the more obscure aspects of their craft but probablyrnnot to talk about creating a plot and telling a stor}’. Suchrnmundane matters are too middlebrow for comfort: Better torndelve into problems of hermeneutics, semiotics, aesthetics, and,rnif time permits, everyone has had plent’ to drink, and the crowdrndoes not suddenly turn unruly, possibly even prosthetics. Andrnone should never count on seeing younger, less formal, and politicallyrnincorrect writers with unusual stor)’ material such asrnCarl Hiassen (too funny and too much about Florida—such anrnimcultured state) or Sue Grafton (too alphabetical—and wherernis the opposing view that there is nothing wrong with misspellingrnsomething?), Scott Turow (too trial-lawy’crish, unlessrnone is looking to sue a Republican), or John Irving (too pickyrnabout his children’s education: what nerve!).rnHOW quaint to overhear modernrnliterary types talking up the truernmeaning of art at cocktail parties whilernhigh-mindedly claiming, as if in anrnepisode o{ Seinfeld, that their booksrnare not really “about anything.”rnIn 1927, fantasy and horror writer H.P. Lovecraft wrote arnstrange novella called The Case of Charles Dexter Ward, inrnwhich there are many references to the Necronomicon, a forbiddenrnand sinister ancient volume containing formidae forrncalling up the dead. At one point, rare book collectors werernhunting furiously for available copies, a wonderftil example of arnfictional invention accepted as fact by the uninitiated, and thenrnpassed down from reader to reader as something of historicalrnvalue. This misunderstanding is innocent enough and evenrndroll in the retelling. By contrast, novelist John Gardner wroternin his book-length critical essay On Moral Fiction of propagandarnas a type of writing employing “overemphasis on texture onrnthe one hand and manipulative structure on the other”-an excellentrnway to describe many of the more overwrought new “literary”rnefforts. Yet a conformist intellectual communit)’ that celebrates,rnthrough its propaganda, this kind of undisciplined andrnunedited writer as a creative genius—and whose editors bragrnabout how impossible these books were to edit—while denigratingrnmere storytellers as hacks is not so innocent; it is, in fact,rnone of the least appealing features of modern literary life.rnThere will always be writers who tell stories and are goodrnenough at it that they succeed in spite of the roadblocks placedrnin their path by the guardians of all that is good. There remain,rnstill, editors actively looking for good books that tell good stories,rnalthough it often seems that there are even more editors hustlingrnafter the latest celebrity memoir, or The Reverend Al Sharpton’srnGuide to the Lesser Ballets. As for the tricksters, the self-involvedrnfaux literati with no plot ideas other than their own angst,rnthey will move through each day with a spring}- step, serene inrnthe knowledge that they will always be allowed by their chumsrnhighly placed in the intellectual communit}’—fellow travelersrnin the practice of vanit}’, mutual flatter}’, and the brownnose—rnto fake it.rnTolstoy would be appalled.rnAPRIL 2000/1 7rnrnrn