The antidote to tedious, soul-savaging "literary fiction," I mean. Jewcy readers with long memories may recall that I'm a big fan of crime and detective fiction. I've even been known to write a little from time to time. Some would say that I oughta be ashamed of myself. Nabokov wrote—I believe in an essay on Robert Louis Stevenson—of his distaste for professors and men of letters who feign interest in the detective genre, which he thought formulaic: I assure you that my love for it is pure and true, and I don't care who knows it. (At the moment I'm reading Pick-Up by Charles Willeford, which is good but nowhere near as good as his Hoke Moseley books.)
Know who's with me on this one?
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