The impulse to separate the literary critic from the mere consumer, the serious reader from the lightweight, is abiding. Several means of demarcation have been used; one is how much interest, and what kind, a reader shows in the person behind the work. The Guardian recently drew a line against the persistent interest in Elena Ferrante’s identity: Ferrante’s “true” fans, which is to say, the serious readers who grasp her work in all its depth, do not care about her identity. In the 1960s, a different literary trend insisted that the author was irrelevant. Ferrante refreshed that orientation, insisting that any attempt to learn about the author responsible for her novels was motivated by a kind of literary malfeasance, hardly higher than tabloid gossip. An author’s biography, Ferrante maintains, opens no window onto her work.
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