There has been a lot of discussion over the past, oh, I don't know, 80 years or so about whether "mysteries" can or should qualify as "real" literature. Are traditional, puzzle-oriented mysteries really without value, as far too many literary crticis have argued?
I finally found what I think is one of the best single comments I've ever seen refuting that argument.
In Phoebe Atwood Taylor's 1931 novel, "The Cape Cod Mystery," her narrator, a character named Prudence Whitsby, observes:
"I read mystery stories for the one and simple reason that they exercise my wits. I fail to get any stimulus out of these modern novels full of sordid reminiscences and biological details."
Amen. (Attn: P.D. James and so many others...)