I came to a realization yesterday.
After a long discussion with many awkward pauses and subdued scoffs about the literature and whether or not it is capable of being just about a description of an object, place, situation, etc. or if it needs subtext and story and plot and such. I'm still on the fence about this even after our clearly divided conversation but it did make me question how I had categorized what I consider to be great literature versus what I consider to be great art. This particular piece we were deliberating over was super short, to the point, and for the sake of this explanation, awkward.
Brevity as beauty? Perhaps. I know that in film and other related media I down right salivate over the use of an every day object (place, situation etc.) being portrayed in a mundane but almost tragic way. Case in point - my love for Sofia Coppola. That woman can make a damn fine movie filled to the brim with beautiful, serene images of just... life. And what is so beautiful about that? Well, have you looked around you recently? Life IS beautiful. Every bug, every bruise, every scale, every scathe, every scent.
Why shouldn't we take pleasurable appreciation in the everyday things?
But that being said should art and literature be held to different standards? Part of me wants to say no but being faced with such an example it appears a little hard to swallow. And to be honest, I don't like the feeling of second guessing my well established categories of what is what. Some would argue though that great art is supposed to do just that, make you question.