Why are we so precious about what we read? Admitting to a guilty pleasure TV shows is the stuff of Cool Girl celebrity profiles. Plenty of brilliant women are open about the "Real Housewives" backlog on their DVRs, but loving un-literary books still feels like a shameful secret.
How many authors of commercial fiction do you know who get huge, glowing profiles in the New Yorker? Well, Jennifer Weiner just did, as she continues to ride her successful hobbyhorse about not getting respect.
I've read great books, good books, mediocre books, and books so awful they damaged my eyes, and it wasn't genre that determined their ranking. Which formative reading hours would I have lost if the book police determined my choices?