It’s one of those perennial discussions – whether explicit writing about sex can ever be proper literature, whether your average respectable literary writer can come up with a decent sex scene, and whether or not it matters at all.
I’ve certainly covered the topic more than once. and it’s having one of its fleeting moments of trending (check out this and this for recent thoughts on the subject). I’ve always been someone who much prefers what people call ‘genre fiction’ such as crime and horror – as well as erotica – to the posh stuff, which always seems to involve some spoilt young man with his head up his arse, writing a novel about how awful it is to be a spoilt young man with his head up his arse… Or, if there’s any sex in a story, it can only be respectable literature if they all die in the end. And few things are more annoying than twats like this. Thinking you can write ‘filth’ as a quick way of making a few quid was nonsense even in the era of Black Lace and all the bandwagon jumpers: it’s almost impossible to make the price of a pint from self-published erotica nowadays.
There is something slightly encouraging about the recent discussions though – at least the lists aren’t ALL Anais Nin/Henry Miller/De Sade (Always be wary of anyone who claims De Sade as a favourite erotic writer. This person has either never read any erotica, never read any De Sade…. or s/he is probably not a good choice of date unless you’re into really hardcore BDSM). And there do seem to be a few steps being taken in the direction of accepting that the boundary between Art and Filth needn’t be so rigid. A good book, after all, can be a naughty book as easily as otherwise.