I am one of those people you see on the bus, in the coffeeshop, walking down the street, reading Harry Potter. I am obsessed. My imagination has been pricked and it needs the fulfillment of tearing through these children’s masterpieces. Yes, I also enjoy the communal experience of reading such a popular text, one that people worldwide are reading and enjoying. But mostly, I just love it!

And I love it at the expense of everything else. Which, in my opinion, is exactly how a book should be loved.

The tension I feel from this, though, is generated from the two adjectives of the above quote: “good” books which feed the “master” spirit. If ever such a spirit existed, I am willing to assume that John Milton was/is one of these. So I am also sure that he knew what he was talking about. But as I spend my days (and nights, sigh…) gobbling up Harry Potter, I am curious if he would consider it as “good” as I do?

And by “good”, I am speaking in terms of value. The implicit, ambiguous, and un-definable state of worthiness assigned to works of fiction that separate the “literature” from the more “popular” works. Yes this is a pretentious musing, and equally contentious, but it still gives me pause because I have an immense love of the “aura” that surrounds “literature” (despite my actual tastes/distaste for the works themselves).

That being said, the times I have fallen head over heels, and spent my days, nights, and dreams reading a book–those books have either been some-kind-of sexual-novel (usually homoerotic), or, not really “literature”. Examples of the latter include Garfield comic books, Anne Rice Vampire chronicles, Sandman graphic novels, and Harry Potter.

Did these works all influence me? Yes. Did they have strong narrative and developed characters? Yes. Interesting perspectives on life? Surely. Fun to read? Definitely. Literary value? Um…

The discussion breaks down at this point, and transforms into a matter of opinion. Although I have championed many a work that has personal or fanciful appeal to me or my current life circumstances, I can objectively state that there are definite differences between a Faulkner novel and the latest Dan Brown release. Accessibility is an obvious one, but construction and technique is a close second. Although Oprah is leading a large portion of the world in an summer-long Faulkner odyssey, I feel like there are many who never touch the stuff because of its implicit challenges. Lately that group includes me, as I have stopped re-reading Sound and Fury in order to dive headfirst into The Half-Blood Prince (along with gazillions of others)…

The fun factor is plaguing me most, and has, in my opinion, immeasurably decreased my attention span and lead me to choose one book over another. I feel guilty because of this, as if I am inadvertently lowering the ranks of my spirit. An analogy would be a delightful trip to Taco Bell in lieu of the creation of a well-balanced and healthy meal. Am I giving my mind indigestion?

Some argue “That is a good book which is opened with expectation and closed with profit.” while others feel that “Some books are to be tasted, others to be swallowed, and some few to be chewed and digested.” Me, I’m not yet ready to say, but I’mma still read Harry Potter, regardless.