It is almost trivially easy to distinguish between serious and popular fiction. We can do it on external criteria and rest safe in the assumption that anything published under, say, the Harlequin imprint, is unlikely to bring us new insights into the human condition. Previous generations have similarly turned to recognisable brand names. Around the time of the First World War, the titles in the 'Bibliotheque de ma Fille' announced themselves on the inside front cover as novels for young ladies. 'Les Romans Bleus' a generation later made the same claim more explicitly, asserting that they were for the (chastely) passionate young Frenchwoman of the day, modern, moral and respectable. Nor should it be assumed from the avowedly moralising character of these novels - irreproachable, upright and salutary as they proclaim themselves - that they are necessarily dull. Those who read (and still do read) them, read them avidly for enjoyment.