Penguin (or, at least, Colin Brush, a Penguin copy editor) delivers an almighty smackdown to Nicholas Lezard, a Guardian book critic who has been bemoaning the death of literary fiction:
Lezard is too busy doom-mongering to explain himself properly. For starters, what is literary fiction? Last time I checked no one could agree on a definition other than it was whatever whoever happened to be talking at the time considered to be good. (Let’s not get into that debate here, suffice to say it is frequently little more than a means to look down on everything that is considered not to be literary.) Next, the only example Lezard offers of this ‘slow and painful death’ is the rise of the reading group.
He accuses reading groups of denigrating ‘books because they do not contain characters’ readers ‘ “like” or “can identify with” ‘. I would argue that Lezard is guilty of exactly the same crime. We all are. Few of us persist with a book we find a bore. The few of us that do are either studying it or being paid to read it. So in the same way that a reading group of new mums in Surbiton might not find much of interest in a mannered story of a middle-aged melancholic widower lost in his ‘grief, loneliness and isolation’ so a melancholic, middle-aged Lezard might not be devouring Possession.
Lezard’s rant seems to have been prompted by the Arts Council’s decision to withdraw funding from Dedalus Books, a small publisher focusing mainly on small-run literary fiction and translated works. Now, the Arts Council’s recent sweeping cuts deserves its own post (which will, probably, follow shortly), and is, frankly, appalling. But the fact that Lezard is using this funding cut to bemoan the death of literary fiction is as small-minded as it is misguided.
The idea that only small publishers can legitimately publish “literary fiction” is, quite simply, tosh. Looking at my bookshelf, ignoring the textbooks, I have (a shockingly small) four books with me (most are at home – these are just the few I’ve bought recently). All of those would have to be classed as literary fiction. Rambling internal monologue? Check. Long words? Check. Absence of Holy Grail/young wizards/spies/z-list celebrity? Check. Two were published by Hodder, one by Penguin and one by Random House. As Colin Brush points out in his Penguin Blog post, Penguin publishes John Updike, Dave Eggers (of whom I am not a fan, but the less of that the better), Zadie Smith, Toby Litt (of whom I am a great fan) and Pat Barker (even greater fan). Lezard seems to be suggesting that once a novel is published in the mainstream (that’s to say, it appears with a 3 for 2 sticker at Waterstone’s), it stops being literary. “Literary fiction” is the domain of those select few who “know” a good novel because it is hard work to read, apparently.
And blaming reading groups for the downturn in literary fiction? Bollocks. I’ve never had the inclination to join a reading group, but those that I have brushed across in my travels have never hesitated to read a novel that might be classed as “literary”. Yes, they read Captain Corelli’s Mandolin and Possession, but equally they eagerly seek out the less-mainstream. Those I know – and, I admit, they may be in a minority – are happy to read about something other than a character “they ‘like’ or ‘can identify with’”. For that is what reading is about: discovering others, characters you don’t know, don’t like, don’t want to know or like.
The definition of “literary fiction” is something else. I’ve always considered “literary fiction” to be a novel that you have to struggle through reading, but when you finish it you feel a sense of accomplishment and fulfilment. Unlike certain other “novels”, which are the complete opposite. These “literary” novels do not have to be necessarily “high-brow” or touch on a concept, a lifestyle, a character way-out-of reach of reach of the reader. Nor do they have to be aimed at the minority. After all, what is a book for if not to be read by as many as possible?
Now, I wholeheartedly agree that Dedalus should be supported in bringing lesser known literature to those who want to read it (I’d love to read this, for example), but suggesting that withdrawal of its funding signals the end of so-called “literary fiction” is, simply, rubbish.
Apparently, Teletext (for some reason) 
I’ve just finished (yes, finished – apart from Ulysses, I tend to struggle through books) Nick Hornby’s 
I love