Why the 21st century can't write a good book

'the Girl on the Train' (2015), fill in the blank books, and dark underbellies.

I don’t read books written after 1994. Or 1972. Or somewhere in the 80s. The date changes every time I say it. But one thing is certainly true: I don’t read books written after a certain date. Literature has been a three thousand year-long conversation about what constitutes a story. I have the feeling that, somewhere at the end of the twentieth century, that conversation died. I say this is a feeling, because I don’t want to digress into justifying the thought.

Yes, it is embarrassingly pretentious to bracket all contemporary literature based on this feeling (thought). And, I know it is. I foster this pretension because it has kept me from reading a lot of bad books. And, because it has forced me to read a lot of good ones. But, the longer the pretension fosters, the more suspicious I become. I must be wrong. I must be. This suspicion is a build up, waiting for a release. A release, for the record, I’d be merry for. It would bring with it the magical realisation that the world is more complex than I had thought. I’d discover that something of the world had hid itself behind the curtains of my feeling (thought), and, in pulling them away, my world would be richer for it. What I’m trying to say is that I’d have more good books to read.

So there I was, rifling through my flatmate’s room. And, alas, I found it. Paula Hawkins’ The Girl on the Train (2015). Or, a book written after a certain date. Oh, and I found something else. A wrapped box, with another box within. And within that, a, a… warning?

I know nothing about Paula Hawkins and nothing about her novel. If you do, and find it ridiculous that The Girl on the Train is the book that determines if all literature written after a certain date is good or bad (the determination itself not being ridiculous in the slightest), then… my apologies? I called a friend, an expert reader, who recommended I read Olivier Bourdeaut’s Waiting for Bojangles (2016). This has been said to be a more suitable candidate for my investigation. If you want to hear what I make of Bojangles, do consider subscribing.

Enough waffling. Here we go.

The Girl on the Train (2015):

I’m not actually going to pretend I’m some sort of authority on what constitutes good and bad writing. Like, who do I think I am? I mean, have you seen my creative writing? No, I’m not here to say that The Girl on the Train is badly written. I’m here to say that Girl on Train is badly written, philosophically superficial, and politically poisonous.

My biggest grape (gripe) is that Girl on Train purports to expose the dark underbelly of contemporary urban life, when there is nothing ‘dark’ nor any ‘underbelly’ to the story. And, that is a grave offence. A good novel that exposes a dark underbelly should, in exposing it, expose the reader to something with regard to which they were in the dark. If the dark underbelly exposed in a book is already common knowledge, i.e., already constitutes a heavily trodden network of signifiers, then the book has excused itself from the task of storytelling.

Girl on Train is a book about murder, cheating, and, at a stretch, alcoholism. Crime, sexual scandal, and addiction. The most predictable continuations to the prompt “you’d think Eric is a stand-up bloke, but…” Fill in the blank. Do it. The first thing that comes to mind. Crime, sexual scandal, addiction. That is Girl on Train, a fill in the blank novel.

Martin Heidegger was frequently at pains to stress the reciprocal relationship between uncovering and covering over. In many languages, the association is found between truth and expressions like disclosing, revealing, uncovering. This, for Heidegger, hints at a prior closing, veiling, covering. For example, a veil might set the stage for a revealing. For Heidegger, this forces the conclusion that any uncovering, will necessarily be, in turn, a covering over. I bring this up to suggest that Hawkins’ bringing to light of crime, sexual scandal, and addiction, might leave in the darkness the genuine dark underbelly of contemporary life.

Reading it, of course, is a pleasurable experience. But, I hold, a perverse one. One feels, of course, disgusted by what is revealed in the book. But, one finds pleasure in it, too. The pleasure of things having gone as expected. In reading a book about dark underbellies, one opens oneself to the possibility of being exposed to the previously unimaginable. An unimaginable that one, nonetheless, might suspect the existence of. When, instead, one finds a fill in the blank novel, one is reassured. One was in the loop, after all. Nothing to write home about. One thinks “it sure is a pity about all that,” but one feels “thank God for all that”. Because “all that” is preferable to, well, one doesn’t know. But, most certainly, preferable to genuine horror. As, it covers over genuine horror. Yes, it is a book that has excused itself from the task of storytelling.

I have said that, nonetheless, Hawkins is uncovering crime, sexual scandal, and addiction. I want to qualify this assertion. Clearly, this cannot be a genuine uncovering. The reader is already perfectly aware of crime, sexual scandal, and addiction. Instead, Hawkins undertakes the performance of uncovering. A play-acting of revealing. Which, again, reassures the reader. But reassurance is a complicated emotion.

I have written before about the chasm between discussion of migrant crime and the material fact of migrant crime. Despite being one of the key talking points of Trump’s reelection, migrant crime accounted for only 29 deaths in 2024 (the Democratic party did nothing to contest this, and ran on being the ‘tougher’ party on immigration). I bring this up to suggest that the Trump voter feels reassurance when their malaise is chalked up to migrant crime. Reassurance, because their malaise is being recognised. Reassurance, that quiets the suspicion that their malaise might have a systematic cause (may I SUGGEST, capitalism?). I say this to suggest that the chasm between the discussion and the material fact of migrant crime shouldn’t just be pointed out because of how wide it is. The chasm should be analysed insofar as it has a function.

I return to Girl on Train to make, perhaps, a shortsighted point. How much do people actually cheat? If we leave it up to the contemporary producers and distributors of signifiers, then we’d find ourselves saying: constantly. And, of course, it is something which happens, a lot.¹ But, I wonder if there might be a chasm between the discussion of cheating and the material fact of it. A chasm, with a function.

Be suspicious of your partner. The dark underbelly that you suspect-fear? That’s just your partner cheating. Nothing else. No, sir. Nothing truly unimaginable. Don’t believe me? Just read Girl on Train! Come on, don’t you feel reassured? Nothing to worry about. Just lots of cheating, nothing to write home about.

A book read after a certain date:

As the steam cools from my diatribe, I turn to more general considerations. Or, unqualified extrapolations. As I have said, I haven’t read a book written after a certain date. In a sense, I am a guinea pig. A foreigner in a new land, I might notice things others are profoundly used to, and hence would no longer notice. Changes are usually slight. Two steps ‘forward’, one step ‘back’, all steps invisible to who’s walking. Me, a foreigner, coming to Girl on Train after finishing Victor Hugo’s The Hunchback of Notre-Dame, am brought to ask:

WHY IS THE FONT SO BIG AND WHY ARE THERE ABOUT 4 WORDS PER PAGE? WHY HAS THE AUTHOR FORGOTTEN THE EXISTENCE OF EXPOSITION? COULD THERE BE MORE BARREN NARRATIVE STRUCTURE?

But, that’s all. There are things to complain about, sure. But, it wasn’t that shocking, after all. Because, I’m not a foreigner in a new land. No sir. I just haven’t read books written after a certain date. Whilst not reading said books, I watched Twilight with my sister. And, spent my day on Youtube and Instagram (and Substack?!). Yes, I am a guinea pig, I’ve been tested on since I was born, but I am not a guinea pig to myself. I am blind to myself and especially so when I think I’m not. So, I’m going to start reading books written after a certain date. I thought I was safe by way of a closed door, but water seeps in through every crack, on a sinking ship. I thought I was safe, but I was just being pretentious. I might even finish Girl on Train.

I quote now, from before. But, read it differently, try:

But, the longer the pretension fosters, the more suspicious I become. I must be wrong. I must be. This suspicion is a build up, waiting for a release. A release, for the record, I’d be merry for. It would bring with it the magical realisation that the world is more complex than I had thought. I’d discover that something of the world had hid itself behind the curtains of my feeling (thought), and, in pulling them away, my world would be richer for it […].

[…] Reading it, of course, is a pleasurable experience. But, I hold, a perverse one. [I feel], of course, disgusted by what is revealed in the book. But, [I find] pleasure in it, too. The pleasure of things having gone as expected. In reading a book about dark underbellies, [I open myself] to the possibility of being exposed to the previously unimaginable. An unimaginable that [I], nonetheless, might suspect the existence of. When, instead, [I find] a fill in the blank novel, [I am] reassured. [I] was in the loop, after all. Nothing to write home about. [I think] “it sure is a pity about all that,” but [I feel] “thank God for all that”. Because “all that” is preferable to, well, [I don’t] know. But, most certainly, preferable to genuine horror.

1. The more the network of signifiers called ‘cheating’ is produced and distributed, the more heavily trodden it is, the more people will conform to it. When one watched the first ever film, one would say “it’s just like real life!”. Now, one says about real life “it’s just like in the films!” So, maybe it is too late. Maybe one should ask the question: how much did people used to cheat?