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  • Omelas, Je T’Aime
    #s:litcrit #t:article/essay | Le Guin’s timeless tale of cruelty and inaction poses a question that none of us can answer. But that hasn’t stopped people from trying.
    1 year ago | View Shared by zeiat
  • a little life is not your father
    #s:books #s:litcrit #t:article/essay | The way we all cut our teeth chewing on the bones of those who made us. It is a natural part of growing up. But the key there is that one must grow up. One must set aside childish things. Because at their core, these essays are not really about aesthetics. Because what are they arguing against? The portrayal of pain in gay life? The portrayal of seriousness in gay life? The theme of sadness? Sex? Not enough sex? Like, those are not aesthetic arguments. Those are not real things that have anything to do with art. That is childish griping about books other people wrote while you yourself have not written a book. That is anxiety about your own future at work. It is fear.
    2 years ago | View Shared by zeiat
  • bobos in ikea
    #s:books #s:litcrit #t:article/essay | There is this slowly congealing idea that it is morally and aesthetically sufficient to merely recreate the alienating torpor of having one’s life organized ruthlessly and brutally by capitalism. The adjunct novel, the novel of millennial precarity, the novel of racial animus, all of which are simply off-shots of naturalism, hew to this idea that the most harrowing thing one can do is simply recreate the effect of the brutal force shaping one’s life. There need not be a suggestion of alternative lives or alternative routes. One need only fire up the ol observational apparatus and nail a couple astute comments about what people say and do in offices and in bars and cafes and on the street, and there you have it, job done.
    2 years ago | View Shared by zeiat

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bobos in ikea

https://blgtylr.substack.com/p/bobos-in-ikea Internet Archive
Tags
#s:books #s:litcrit #t:article/essay
Date added
July 26, 2022, 10:50 a.m.
Description
There is this slowly congealing idea that it is morally and aesthetically sufficient to merely recreate the alienating torpor of having one’s life organized ruthlessly and brutally by capitalism. The adjunct novel, the novel of millennial precarity, the novel of racial animus, all of which are simply off-shots of naturalism, hew to this idea that the most harrowing thing one can do is simply recreate the effect of the brutal force shaping one’s life. There need not be a suggestion of alternative lives or alternative routes. One need only fire up the ol observational apparatus and nail a couple astute comments about what people say and do in offices and in bars and cafes and on the street, and there you have it, job done.