Shame about the books that shaped the decade

In the 19th century, along with a great number of sentimental and plain bad books, people scrambled to get their hands on the works of George Eliot, Trollope, Thackeray and Dickens. Even the “bad” novels of the 19th century were works of literature compared with the smash hits of our time.

Last week, trade publication, The Bookseller released a list of the highest-selling books of the decade: filling all top three spots was the Fifty Shades of Grey trilogy by E L James, an appallingly written tale of sadomasochistic love between a billionaire businessman and a whimsical student, which popularised whips and handcuffs. Fifty Shades of Grey, published in 2011, sold 4.73 million copies; 2012’s Fifty Shades Darker sold 3.37 million and Fifty Shades Freed was 3.11 million. That’s some

11.2 million copies in total.

What does this say about our culture? First, perhaps, that women were deeply bored by the sexual landscape, but also that, when it comes to reading, our capacity for sophistication has plummeted.

Fifty Shades – and yes, I read all three – is not a Jilly Cooperesque romp that is hilarious and naughty, while also being quite well written. It’s thousands of pages of flat, cliché-ridden and repetitious description whose ultimate take-home is that being up for domination is the ticket to true love.

It wouldn’t be so bad if we were also devouring books of better quality but, alas, the modern taste in literature is 50 shades of dreary.