Magic realism: yay or nay?

Dear readers,

I have a weekly habit of reading the weekly column, The Books that Made Me in The Guardian newspaper. I usually read it on Saturday mornings. It’s a moment of peace: a respite from the constant thread of articles about Brexit or Trump or climate change which seems to have grabbed the world by the cojones and taking it in turns in swinging everyone’s minds above it’s head, while dividing everyone at the same time.

Don’t get me wrong; I’m not apathetic to the above issues. However, this column reminds me that the world doesn’t have to be so damn topsy-turvy all the time, and somewhere amongst the streets of chaos, there is a corner of peace. And these articles are that corner for me.

The article invites writers to talk about the books that made them, inspired them, they find over- or under-rated and what they’re reading at that moment. There have been a few authors that have grabbed my attention of late, such as Zadie Smith, Malcolm Gladwell, Ali Smith, Valeria Luiselli and Kevin Barry, amongst others. It gives people like myself an idea of what books accomplished writers reach out for and what makes them tick. If you’re anything like me, you’d love it.

Just this morning, I read the Books that Made Me by the Australian, Clive James. As a kid, I used to love staying up to watch his comedy programmes. To my embarrassment, I didn’t know much of his literature career, which I will investigate in due course.

I enjoyed his article and I took note of the literature that triggers him. However, the most poignant point, as suggested by the title, is that genre that tends to divide people (and there I was moaning about divided societies earlier in the post): magic realism. This is what he wrote:

The most overrated books almost all emerged simultaneously from a single genre: magic realism. I can’t stand it. I always found ordinary realism quite magic enough.

As someone who suffered through A Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel García Márquez, as well as Allende, I wholly sympathise with James’s opinion, especially his reason, that ordinary realism is magic enough. All you have to do is open a newspaper to embrace the absurdities of life, especially in the UK and Honduras. We live, in a way, in an absurd age, so I don’t need to read a 400 page book which take absurdities to a whole new level.

I know that I risk offending many people in Latin America, which many believe is one of the key cornerstones to this genre. My wife is one of them, and it is of silent agreement that I am not allowed to speak bad of Gabo (aka Gabriel García Márquez) in the abode (nor Ricky Martin or God for that matter). However, my question for those who are fans of the genre is:

What is it you actually like about the genre?

I might be missing something, but I just don’t understand the fascination. For those who also aren’t fans, feel free to chip in on this debate.

Yay or nay?