The guy who wrote Moby-Dick was dead for thirty years before anyone realized he’d written the first Great American Novel. Gene Wolfe is still around, but he’s 81. Get a jump on posterity and read him now.
It is artistic transference, better than anything else that explains the reverence people have towards Wallace’s books. Yet when it comes to my own connection to Wallace, the story is less about his books, and more about my own life and languid drift across America.
Ke$ha (or, as The New York Times calls her, “Kesha”) released a commentary album on Spotify for her new album, Warrior; it’s approximately ten and a half minutes of Ke$ha talking and it’s fantastic.
There is no lag time, seemingly no period during which the avant-garde is actually more advanced than the plain old guard. Any sense there might once have been of ‘underground’ or ‘subculture’ has collapsed into one cultural behemoth.
While fans often praise “The Novel” for its depth and enduring cultural relevance, Proust’s magnum opus isn’t exactly what most people would consider accessible. So why is Proust’s work experiencing something of a renaissance?
Consider this my letter of resignation. I’m retiring. Look, I’ve been doing this thankless job of writing fiction for a few years now. Doesn’t matter how many. Five, maybe. But like I said, doesn’t matter.
If you spent a childhood wishing each birthday for a daemon of your own and still, to this day, associate the aurora borealis and the I Ching with Dust, this month’s guide to readerly fashion is for you.
Apparently, our problem is that we are not “people who have suffered.” And it’s true that, despite the mild irritations of a bombed-out economy and dizzying unemployment rates and sky-high student debt and a stagnant government and the threat of climate change, we’re doing okay.