“Classic” has become a ubiquitous adjective. While it’s supposed to identify something as having enduring value and merit beyond its time, it is now routinely accorded to anything that’s not quite new. At least not old enough for it to have proved its worth over a significant period of time. If a movie flops, it is re-released five years later in a “classic” or “criterion” or “collector’s” edition and gets another shot at redemption. It’s a kind of alchemy that works surprisingly often. With books, the standards might be higher, but the game ultimately follows the same rules. The first stage is “critical acclaim”. Then the work is left to age for a bit, which is the necessary intermediate stage for its subsequent elevation to the status of a classic. Once a book has obtained that ultimate stamp of approval, there’s no way back. It can capitalize on it ever after.
I’m not saying the term “classic” is meaningless. In many cases it is perfectly warranted. But in just as many cases it’s not. In other words, “classic” is not statistically significant in explaining if something’s actually deserving of that description or not. This became painfully obvious when I recently read “On the Road” for the first time, at the advanced age of 32. I really wanted to like this book. I was on holidays and in the mood for being taken back to a period infused with the spirit of carelessness, freedom and intellectual curiosity. Well, in that regard, “On the road” is utterly disillusioning. My expectations of the beat generation had clearly been wrong and misguided, but that’s not the book’s fault. What I really noticed was just how outdated it was. And I don’t mean that in a superficial, derogatory way. Things don’t have to be contemporary in order to be meaningful. But I missed relevance. The main characters, especially Dean, and to a lesser degree, Sal, are so far off the mainstream, so mannered, that they lack credibility. Yes, they’re anti-heroes. Yes, the historical context was different. The fact of the matter is, they haven’t survived the transition through the decades. They epitomize values and behaviors that have no applicability whatsoever to my life and the lives of people I know. And it’s not because I can’t identify with the beat culture. In many ways it’s still alluring, albeit in a nostalgic, non-committal way. But the feverish, outlandish ways of the protagonists, their inability to get things done, to live up even to their own ideals, their questionable ethics and their inevitable march into self-destruction, are sobering. There’s literally nothing to be gained from reading what they do. It’s mostly sad, sometimes funny and often pathetic.
So why is it a classic? Because it paved the way for a new style of writing and established a counterculture to the postwar establishment of the 1950s. That’s a big achievement in itself. It drove societal change and spawned books in a similar vein, that may have been better in expressing a universal message. But looking at “On the road” from today’s perspective and judging it by its quality alone, one has to admit that there’s not a whole lot there. “Classic” is a great marketing label. But it should be reserved for subject matter that truly transcends time.