Reading, and certainly reviewing, a book of this stature so far removed from its original publication is like finally viewing Van Gogh’s The Starry Night in person. There’s too much baggage. What fresh perspective can be attained through the fog of museum gift shops glutted with mouse pads, t-shirts, and coffee mugs?

So it is with The Golden Compass. It’s won awards. It’s been involved in controversy for allegedly being anti-church. It’s been made into a movie.

But I wanted to read it. Because I’m always celebrating Banned Book Week.

And I was disappointed.

Which isn’t fair. It’s not bad, per se, and occasionally mildly entertaining. Pullman displays great creativity and imagination throughout the telling of his story. The characters are interesting and the plot moves at a brisk pace.

But the book just wasn’t for me.

Not because it’s intended for Young Readers and I’m pushing 30, but because, Michael Chabon forgive me, it’s a genre book.

Chabon, and many others, have implored us to respect “genre” fiction and treat it on the same level as the more universally accepted “literature.”

But I’m sorry. I can’t.

Because “genre” fiction like The Golden Compass has talking bears, and witches, and little creatures called daemons that accompany each and every individual, and trinkets that tell the operator whatever they ask if only they can figure out how to use it. Oh, how convenient…

For my limited time, money, and energy, there is a big difference between The Golden Compass and Animal Farm. My fantasy predilections begin and end somewhere around Lord of the Rings and Mervyn Peak’s masterwork The Gormenghast Novels.

And let me tell you something genre lovers, there is a big (BIG)  difference between The Golden Compass and Gormenghast.

Or even Terry Pratchett. Pratchett gets my time and money over Pullman any day.

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