Esas novelas malas que llegan a librerías

[Løan]

y antes de que salieran las películas no lo conocía nadie.

"Nadie" será en el círculo de personas que conoces, que por lo visto no deben estar ni remotamente al tanto de literatura de ninguna época o clase.

Ahora, si lo que pretenden es debatir sobre cuestiones más rigurosas de forma y estilo, si tal o cual autor maneja mejor o peor las sinestesias, metáforas, anáforas, alegorías, etc, entonces ahí si reconozco mis limitaciones, pero quisiera saber cuantos de aquí realmente pueden opinar sobre esas cuestiones con propiedad y fundamenteos, por lo menos al nivel de un licenciado en letras...

No hace falta hablar de cuestions rigurosas de estilo en las que alguien más empapado en el tema podría decir más. Cualquier persona con no demasiado retardo debería ser capaz de notar cuando la prosa es buena o no.

Tomemos extremos:

Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. Lo-lee-ta: the tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth. Lo. Lee. Ta. She was Lo, plain Lo, in the morning, standing four feet ten in one sock. She was Lola in slacks. She was Dolly at school. She was Dolores on the dotted line. But in my arms she was always Lolita. Did she have a precursor? She did, indeed she did. In point of fact, there might have been no Lolita at all had I not loved, one summer, a certain initial girl-child. In a princedom by the sea. Oh when? About as many years before Lolita was born as my age was that summer. You can always count on a murderer for a fancy prose style. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, exhibit number one is what the seraphs, the misinformed, simple, noble-winged seraphs, envied. Look at this tangle of thorns.

This club, it meets up irregularly, at a secret location. Sometimes remote and sometimes hidden in plain sight. But never the same place twice. Usually not even in the same time zone.

And at these meetings, these people… let’s not beat around the bush, let’s call them what they are, the Masters of the Universe. Or the Executive Branch of the Known Solar System. So these people, the Executives, they use these private gatherings as much-needed down time from the important and stressful business of fucking the world up even more than it is already and dreaming up ever more sadistic and devious ways to torture, enslave and impoverish the population.

And what do they do on their off days, when they want to relax?

It should be obvious.

They fuck.

¿Hace falta ser licenciado en letras para notar la diferencia?