We all need escapism, occassionally.

There is a certain amount of intellectual snobbery around the long-established Mills & Boon romance novel series, but it was reported last week that Sheffield academic Val Derbyshire is seeking to redress the balance.

The books, much-loved by a mostly female readership, have often been described as formulaic, lightweight, sexist, out-dated (and much worse), but Derbyshire, a PhD student at Sheffield University, is of a different opinion. She argues that they should be regarded as feminist texts with real literary value and she will be making her case at Sheffield University’s Festival of the Mind later this month in an event entitled Why Read Harlequin Mills & Boon Romances? Detractors would say that the simplistic recurring theme of weak and needy women rescued by dark, brooding, handsome men is anti-feminist but Derbyshire points out that often the hero is called to account for his behaviour and is forced to reassess his attitude.

While I reserve judgement on whether the Mills & Boon back catalogue lives up to Derbyshire’s view of them as ‘literature of protest’, I applaud her argument. The point is we should not be snobbish or prescriptive about what people are reading – the fact that they are reading books is a good thing in itself. And while intellectual challenge is all very well, we all need a bit of pure escapism from time to time.

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Several studies have shown that fiction readers are more able to empathise with others, and that reading in general has a positive effect on our psychological processes. Whether it’s one of the classics, genre fiction, a literary heavyweight or a feelgood romance, engaging with literature is always, in my view, a positive, nourishing and beneficial activity.

I have to admit that I’ve never actually read a Mills & Boon romance, so I am not in a position to judge them, but I was – and remain – a huge fan of Bridget Jones’ Diary. (I’ll be going to see the new film when it comes out in a couple of weeks). There has been similiar criticism levelled against author Helen Fielding’s depiction of an inept, disorganised, self-loathing heroine who required a strong man to sort out her life for her. However, Fielding was hardly suggesting her readers should model their lives on Bridget, rather she allowed them to recognise certain characteristics with which they identified. It’s empathy again, you see. No, it’s not great literature, but it’s funny, it’s truthful, and it’s shamelessly feelgood. Where’s the harm in that? We could all do with a happy ending now and again.

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