Last night, in a biker bar, I overheard two men discussing what distinguished "realist" fiction from more "experimental" work. Although one shouldn't generalise, I never expect bikers to be literary critics. Well, these were literary critics, and good ones - in fact, they'd bought their "hogs" with royalties from a book they'd co-written, Feminine Desire In Jane Austen: Them Ho's Lived To Get Freaking Hitched.
Ahem. That's about as close to profanity as I'm willing to lean on this blog, and the article contains some other "ornery" stuff I wouldn't dream of quoting here, but it's hilarious. Unless you're the deadly earnest type who's unable to joke about literary fiction (and goodness, if you are, I've gotta warn you that you're reading the wrong blog), run over there and catch some giggles.
It's too bad the book mentioned in the article isn't real. I would have loved seeing the estimable Laura Vivanco discuss it on her blog.