It was the Realists (folks like Henry James) and Victorians who led this charge. As sort of proto-Fabian socialist types, they believed that literature should express the ordinary problems (usually having to do with finance or romance or a combination... a cynical reaction to the Horatio Alger literary movements of folks like Dickens) of ordinary people (who tended to be upper middle-class, just like the authors). In other words, folks like James asserted that the only true literature was the kind that, through some coincidence, they happened to write. How amazing!
Yeah, I’m not saying that these cats even write badly or whatever. I’m sure there are plenty of folks who clap like seals whenever they get to read some mundane crap all about the crushing reality of modern day folks and their FEELINGS. It’s just that it makes me wanna vomit that the semi-popular culture that defines what is “literature” (even the word makes me wanna hurl) claims that the fantastic has no part in it when historically it would seem that it has a lot do with it.
Freegards