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Recently I read Georges Simenon’s short novel The Engagement. I wolfed it down in two hours. It is bleak and pitiless in its view of the human condition. (Mental note: Send copy to Bing Lao, the connoisseur of hopelessness.) The prose achieves a dark intensity without visibly going for effect. When we meet the protagonist he is already doomed, but we feel compelled to watch the noose tighten around his sordid life. The poor schmuck. The Engagement reminded me of Albert Camus’ The Stranger.

Today at the bookstore I found Georges Simenon’s The Widow. According to the introduction by Paul Theroux, The Widow came out in the same year as The Stranger, and Andre Gide pronounced it the better book.

Why then does Camus have the towering literary reputation while Simenon is largely dismissed as a writer of detective novels? Upon hearing the news that Camus had won the 1957 Nobel Prize for Literature, Simenon reportedly told his wife, “Can you believe that asshole got it and not me?!”

There are several probable reasons why Simenon never got the sort of love critics lavished on Camus. (1. I love Camus. 2. Maybe Camus is just better, but read on.) First, Simenon wrote popular novels—books for the general public, not just a few specialists. This meant that whenever critics reviewed his work it was with an air of, “Well, this isn’t really my thing but the folks seem to like it.” The guilty pleasure defense. In my view if it’s guilty, it ain’t pleasure. Simenon made a lot of money off his writing; he bought houses, classic cars, and traveled the world in style. A writer who makes serious money is never taken seriously. Writers and artists are expected to suffer poverty and privation for their art; it’s a sign of “authenticity”.

Second, Camus died a young and attractive man, in a car crash, which is the romantic way for a young and attractive man to die. You can’t compete with a rockstar-type myth. Simenon lived to be 83.

Third, Camus wrote a few novels and Simenon churned out 400. That’s 4 followed by two zeroes. He made writing look easy and critics hate that. They like evidence of a struggle, of creative agony, wringing the masterpiece out of one’s guts. After all, most critics think of themselves as writers, or had attempted to become writers. This leads to the bizarre situation in which failed writers pass judgment on writers who actually write for a living. The best critics are themselves writers. (It does not follow that all bad reviews are motivated by envy or resentment. It is entirely possible that the work is plain awful).

Bad enough that Simenon wrote 400 novels, but what if most of them were brilliant? To be prolific and brilliant is unforgivable. We call this the Meryl Syndrome after Meryl Streep, an actress who is wonderful in movie after movie, so no one notices how amazing she is anymore. She is always good, so the quality of her work is taken for granted. It is as if such talent were common when 99 percent of every movie ever made shows that it is not.

However, if a mediocre actress were to make herself look ugly and then turn in an above-average performance, the movie industry would pelt her with acting trophies. We often reward mediocrity because it is comforting. If they can do it, anyone can do it.

The challenge for all of us in this day and age is to distinguish between the merely surprising and the truly amazing.