The literary reputation of James M. Cain is evidence of justice denied, a classic example of scholarly myopia toward the man whose novel The Postman Always Rings Twice (and we have Camus's word for this) was a model for The Stranger. Critics offer some begrudging admissions about Cain's power but mainly they only patronize his work. Typical comments say things like "good writing on less than good material," "a bath in sensationalism," or "hard-boiled hocus-pocus." They piously suggest that "the nearest architectural analogy … is a mile high outdoor juke box" or that "all the research necessary … could have been gathered in an afternoon at a third rate movie house."
Some of the depreciation has nothing to do with Cain per se. His large (and largely "illiterate") audience renders him suspect, as does his "easiness." The Puritan ethic, at work among the very cogniscenti who satirize it in the bourgeois, works against him: anything as much fun as The Postman must be questioned. Although we have moved a long way from banning a book like Postman, the feeling that Cain appeals to our prurience still prevails and causes us to adopt an attitude of either silly defensiveness or postured superiority.
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