Abstract
The hoary old problem of fiction standards is still with us, it seems, and the question of whether or not to provide what is alternatively called “the ephemeral” and “the meretricious” continues to be mooted extensively at professional meetings. Meanwhile, most of us willingly supply at least a quota of romances, thrillers and westerns for those hordes of voracious readers who are so fiercely addicted to them. We adopt a policy of appeasement, and, within certain limitations, all is well. Romances, we may tell ourselves, are not all elongated versions of stories in pulp magazines. Thrillers have a high‐brow pedigree: even people with the intellectual attainments of Bertrand Russell revel in them. And westerns—
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