The National Book Award in fiction, more than any other American literary prize, illustrates the ever-broadening cultural gap between the literary community and the reading public. The former believes that everyone reads as much as they do and that they still have the authority to shape readers’ tastes, while the latter increasingly suspects that it’s being served the literary equivalent of spinach. Like the Newbery Medal for children’s literature, awarded by librarians, the NBA has come to indicate a book that somebody else thinks you ought to read, whether you like it or not. →
Salon correctly lays into the National Book Awards for fronting on books people actually read. We’re not even talking Dan Brown novels; these guys snub everyone. Franzen. Etc.
That said, the NBAs’ refusal to resign themselves to the New York City lit mag mafia (as lovingly embraced by Vanity Fair! Books about baseball, you guys!) is oddly pleasing. And they’re one of the few critical boards who are open to the idea of admitting to and judging with the awareness of the impact their award will have on sales; that pretension somehow still holds up way too often elsewhere.
