Once, literature was a space where human existence was laid bare. Writers like Albert Camus, Fyodor Dostoevsky, Franz Kafka, and Virginia Woolf used literature as a means of confrontation against society, against fate, against the self. They were not concerned with comfort, nor did they seek to fit their words into a marketable structure. Their works were messy, filled with contradictions, unresolved conflicts, and questions that had no answers. And that is exactly what made them real.

But somewhere along the way, literature changed. Today, the books that flood the shelves—especially those deemed “bestsellers”—often seem to lack that rawness. They are structured, polished, refined to the point where the discomfort of real human experience is dulled. The rise of genre-based literature has played a huge role in this shift, pushing storytelling towards entertainment rather than introspection. Thriller, romance, fantasy, sci-fi—all of these genres, while capable of producing great literature, have been streamlined into formulas that prioritize readability over depth, satisfaction over struggle, and marketability over meaning.

The literary greats were not obsessed with readability or how many copies they could sell. Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment does not spoon-feed the reader a neat resolution—it drags you through the guilt, paranoia, and internal torment of Raskolnikov. Camus’ The Stranger presents a protagonist who feels nothing the way society expects him to, and for that, he is condemned. Virginia Woolf’s To the Lighthouse meanders through thoughts and consciousness, often without a clear direction, because that’s how human minds work. These books are challenging not just in their language but in their themes. They force the reader to wrestle with morality, alienation, the absurdity of life, and the inevitable decay of all things.

Now, compare that to the kind of books that dominate today’s literary market. Most follow clear story arcs—beginning, middle, and end—structured in a way that keeps the reader comfortable. It’s not that complexity has disappeared entirely, but it has been tamed. Even books that explore dark themes often do so in a way that is digestible for a wide audience. They hold the reader’s hand instead of letting them wander into the abyss alone. 

Rise of genre fiction and the death of rawness

A major turning point in the decline of raw literature was the rise of genre-based storytelling. This isn’t to say that all genre fiction is shallow—there have been deeply introspective sci-fi books, psychological thrillers, and poetic fantasy works. But the majority of what gets published under these categories follows rigid formulas.

In romance novels, characters have clear motivations, conflicts, and resolutions. In thrillers, there is an inevitable twist or revelation, and in most cases, the hero triumphs. In fantasy, world-building often takes precedence over existential depth. These genres have been shaped by reader expectations, and because publishers know what sells, they continue to push books that fit into these patterns.

There is an obsession with writing styles that are “clean” and “accessible.” But reality is not clean. Human emotions are not linear. Thoughts are not always beautifully structured. A truly great book should leave you unsettled, questioning, perhaps even changed. It should not just be something you consume; it should be something you wrestle with.

Why do we need unpolished literature?

The world itself is not neatly structured. Life does not follow a traditional narrative.  Life is not a story with a clear beginning, middle, and end. People do not always grow, relationships do not always resolve, and meaning is not always found. The greatest literature has always embraced this reality. People act irrationally, events happen without reason, and most of our questions remain unanswered. The greatest literature has always reflected that disorder. It does not try to comfort us; it forces us to confront things we’d rather ignore. 

Books like Notes from Underground (Dostoevsky) or The Plague (Camus) show us the depths of human suffering, self-destruction, and isolation. Mrs. Dalloway (Woolf) immerses us in the fragmented thoughts of a mind burdened by time and memory. These works do not try to make sense of life for us; they simply present it as it is. That is what makes them timeless.

It’s not just that modern books are too polished—it’s that they’ve turned into brain rot. Instead of challenging readers, literature has become a tool for distraction, feeding people easily digestible, surface-level stories that keep them comfortable rather than forcing them to think. Romance tropes are the biggest offender. They are everywhere, infecting even genres that were never meant to be about love. Every story now seems to revolve around predictable relationships, characters written solely to be adored, and emotional payoffs designed to give readers a quick dopamine rush.

Shraddha Acharya

BSc IInd year

Padma Kanya Campus