|Intro to High Pulp
Anthony Neil Smith
Or at least, that was the point originally. Fast,
entertaining, but disposable literature. So it got the
reputation as being shit. Formula shit, sentimental shit, not
worthy of much respect.
Some of the big guns broke out of pulp and made names for
themselves--Dashiell Hammett, Raymond Chandler, Cornell Woolrich,
to name a few. They're considered good writers today by any
standard, not simply "good pulp guys, better than the usual."
But pulp has always been more than lowest common denominator
fiction. It is primal, emotionally draining, and exciting
because it takes people in outrageous situations and shows how
they react. If we wanted to talk formula, let's look at
cozy mysteries: "Oh dear, the Colonel has been shot. Dreadful.
Let's round-up the manor guests." Sure, right. But it seems to
me the more common reaction to finding a cold dead corpse is to
freak out or yell "It wasn't me! You've got the wrong guy and
you can't prove a thing!" Pulp forces us into reaction. Love it
or hate it, it moves you somehow and doesn't have to explain
Pulp is cheap.
Those writers in the thirties were cranking out pieces for a
penny a word. That led to a lot of unnecessary words (although
they were entirely necessary if you had to pay rent) in thick,
cheap tabloids that cost a dime. The more stories they wrote,
the more they got paid. The result is fiction that doesn't stop,
doesn't contemplate. It roars past like a train. You either
catch it or you fall under the tracks. In the worst cases, the
speed meant cliché on top of tired cliché. In the best cases,
though, the writers had the foresight to take a different track,
subvert and pervert the clichés until they had something
original, something close to a natural, hyper-sensitive world
where every word was louder, harsher, every punch more painful,
every dame a schemer and every Joe a down-on-his-luck working
man who tries to climb out of the gutter by getting in over his
I believe it was noir writer Eddie Muller who summed it up by
saying, "In noir fiction, you're fucked on page one and it only
gets worse as you go."
Pulp is exploitative.
It tackles sex and money and violence, all the things of
daytime TV, and wraps it in a tasty package. It doesn't redeem
itself. It doesn't let us fool ourselves into thinking these
characters are going to be okay. And it is never, ever,
politically correct. It mines our prejudices, fears, kneejerk
biases, and forces us to look at them without apologies. A magic
mirror for the ugliness we can usually hide. When we're reading
pulp, though, we don't mind rooting for the bastards because for
a moment there, we can empathize.
Pulp is dirty.
Clean pulp? Why in the hell would you want that? But I've met
a lot of crime readers who want the fedoras, the dead bodies,
the tough guy talk, and the femme fatales, but they don't want
the stabbing, the shooting, the "fuck"s or the fucking. If
that's you, stop reading now and go find yourself a mystery
about innkeeping or something.
Pulp writers were always skirting the edges of what was
allowable in their culture, and as the decades rolled by, they
were able to push the boundaries pretty wide. Some say that we
see so much sex and violence now that it's difficult to shock
people anymore, but just look at what causes some of the
controversy in our entertainment--a bare breast flashed for a
fraction of a second? Desperate Housewives? Howard Stern,
for god's sake? Seems we're still a bit more cloistered than
most care to admit. Where do pulp writers look to next for the
ingredients for future shocks? As long as people think of new
ways to hurt each other, betray each other, and fuck each other
over with mucho titillation, they'll be just fine.
So what is "High" Pulp?
Who says people can't experiment with language and
storytelling in the pulp genre? Our best writers have been doing
it for quite a while now, but publishers and readers have been a
bit slow catching on. Jonathan Lethem's Motherless Brooklyn
turned a few heads several years ago, a literary noir novel that
deconstructed hard-boiled language through a Tourette's
afflicted private eye. Beyond that, James Ellroy and Ken Bruen
write bare bones prose that comes at you like a montage of
images and dialogue, doing away with the formality of
description. It can happen anywhere. It does. If you care about
the characters, you'll stick around regardless. George Pelecanos
gave us several novels in which the characters were more
interested in telling us about their record collections than in committing crimes. And they were good books, almost
documentary-like, maybe even minimalist noir. I'm saying that
the formula is busted. Some people still pick it up and tinker
with it, repair it now and then, but for the most part, great
pulp writers absorbed the basics and have now moved on to find
more interesting ways to tell you their stories.
That's what this issue is all about. The stories had to give
me a certain feeling. They had to make my eyes go wide, make me
say "Wow, I've got to tell someone about this." I wanted these
pulp stories to reflect contemporary times instead of nostalgia
for the Forties. I wanted them to come across with strong unique
voices, the characters giving us the story as only they can do
it. I wanted them to be addictive, exciting, full of writing
that slaps you silly and makes you like it.
In the primetime of pulp magazines, readers would leave them
on trains, in cabs, in bus stations, for someone else to find
and enjoy. That's what I'm doing for you now. I'm leaving this
issue at our cyber bus station because these stories are too
good for me to keep to myself. Besides, the writers would beat
the living hell out of me if I tried to do that anyway. I'm
really afraid of them all.