I hate Magic Realism. Now, while I’m usually loathe to dismiss entire literary movements (not least because I’m not really qualified to have an opinion), I find that sweeping generalizations are more entertaining than tempered arguments.

Still, despite my preference for total condemnation, I suppose it’s only fair to be a little more specific. For the uninitiated, Magic Realism is a broad literary movement (with ill-defined boundaries) focused on winning as many book prizes as necessary.

Of course, for the initiated it’s a little different; they think the movement is all about incorporating magical elements into otherwise “realistic” settings. Now, once you get past the absurdity of pretending that the events in novels even remotely resemble reality, this isn’t so bad. The effect can be sort of soothing, like a fairytale for grownups.

In fact, if the genre had no consequences beyond its existence as a mode of expression, my ire would be, well, gone. The problem, however, is not the content; it’s the invidious spread.

Like many initially successful ideas, it’s the numerous iterations that irritate. Every time I step into Kepler’s, I find a new serious-looking tome revolving around “love” and/or “mysticism” which takes place in a far-off land where they speak a different language.

The plots of these masterpieces are curiously interchangeable. Invariably, there’s the protagonist who is either half of a pair of star-crossed lovers or trapped in a strange environment.

After setting the scene, the story proceeds through a series of evocative descriptions comparing the metaphorical equivalents of apples and oranges, each designed to keep the boundary between fictional reality and fictional fiction blurred.

Eventually, after nothing has happened for several hundred pages, the reader is left with a deliberately ambiguous, indecipherable ending. And, voila! Next stop — feting by the literary press and college students everywhere, moving swiftly onto the inevitable prize ceremony.

Actually, it’s not just the incredible intellectual laziness of the readership that gets to me. Or the tedious, formulaic plot devices. Or even the fact that genuine talent can devote itself to following the herd. No, there’s more.

Personally, what I find especially troublesome is the romantic vision of foreign lands peddled by the magic realist — romantic visions which many of you take a little too seriously.

The world isn’t described by romance and magic. This is not to say that romance and magic don’t exist (they don’t, but your delusions are your own business), but, rather, that life is a little more complex.

It’s tempting to assume that a billion-plus subcontinentals can be summed up by “Midnight’s Children” or “The God of Small Things” or “The Namesake,” but, with just the slightest application of thought, it should be obvious that this isn’t the case.

Garcia Marquez is inordinately talented. “One Hundred Years of Solitude” is very good. “Love in the Time of Cholera” is brilliant. “Of Love and Other Demons” is one of the most beautiful things I’ve read. However, this is just not the real-life version of South America.

Beautiful fiction that plays out the same ideas over and over again is damaged by an effective lack of context. Without exposure to the other aspects of a culture, we are seduced by the romance and facility of a simple and unadorned worldview.

Many have a tendency to deny other societies the complexity and the variety we acknowledge in our own. People don’t do it just to denigrate, but also to praise: “Aren’t those Indians just wonderful? So spiritual and in touch with karma. Such noble faith, and what a mystical country. If only we could be like that.”

To be completely fair, I should point out that said tendency is a universal human trait, not just one that arises when dealing with different folk. Everyone is convinced that the briefest familiarity with a subject is enough to make them an expert. A well-placed article in The New York Times is enough to fill the chattering classes with specialists in whatever obscure subject got an airing.

Still, this blase confidence is somehow more annoying when it’s applied to culture or ethnicity. Someone laboring under the misconception that they understand String Theory after reading The Science Times is less bothersome than the hoards who believe that a few dozen Magic Realist novels sum up the culture of billions.

Literature and its ilk (art, music, film) should be at the vanguard of the fight against the march to a world of stereotypes. Not only is this not the case, but what should be the solution is, instead, part of the problem.

Incidentally, particular examples of lazy, weak and unimaginative prize-winning, well-written Magic Realism include the “Life of Pi” and the “Inheritance of Loss.” Email navins@stanford.edu if you disagree.