Conclusion: Eureka.
Sociocultural Analysis and the Literary Tradition
Benighted Bedrot
The zoomer’s are right. The cyclical cringe drive has gone from needing to invent new words for the same definition every 2-3 years to accelerating at such an exponential pace that now acknowledgment of your surroundings is a profound humiliation. Nonchalance is embarrassing. Sincerity is embarrassing. lower-case is embarrassing. Old toons realizing it and adopting formal grammar is embarrassing. Normal grammar is embarrassing. Indulgent alt-lit is embarrassing. Structured work is embarrassing. Meaning is embarrassing and nihilism is embarrassing. Were Harold alive they’d salute the bedrot, blooming ( embarrassing ) in bulwark as vanguards of dignity, like Thermopylae, Persians being making eye contact when spoken to. The daemonic genius can wait, we have to focus on not being gay. And the same applies to consumption as production.
If I could make a brief appeal to any young writers feeling these restraints, allow me a short apologia for the performative. Novelty is a finite resource. If you read The Brother’s Karamazov at 18 it’s a genuinely transformative experience. If you read it at 45 you’re fat. There’s a small period when acuity of feeling is sharp enough to pierce and effect, things harden and it would be a shame to calcify acceptance over ascendence. You may have to plod through 400 pages of tedium but it’s punctuated by 40 paragraphs of divine, when finished I considered the author near deity. Don’t deny yourself sustenance due to discourse, the canon is good and the window smaller than you think.
Sermon over. We’re at a real impasse. Art is dead. But not to worry, I’ve been hard at work. For you guys. Think Jung stumbling out of his bedroom in an authentic alchemist’s robe from the Zoroastrian era after a 6 month psychosis and addressing the schizophrenic, currently catatonic, patient he’s been fucking: “The red man is like the black swan, but then he was a snake.” That’s the level I’m at right now.
I’m going to save art.
After years of analysis, reading, research, experimentation, unemployment, ruining my life 3 times, research chemicals, normal drugs, and just kind of fucking around I have synthesized:
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Thus spoke
Pestle.
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