/lit/ - Literature

>>19473799

>>19407012
witch

>>19380899
>no, they must be lived

Hot

>>18849325

>sincerity be with you

>>18740975
>Sincerity...must come back

>>18677691

>>18664752
hot

who will push back against the ironists

>>18628567
he was both normie and divergent

come and see

>>18617891
Praying for you, anon, haha! Sincerely!

>there is another

rereading the pretty feet book

>>18543530
hey anon pls upvote my wikifeet if you have a chance

Is Megan the flower child of DFW? She seems very similar, a feeling-oriented writer with an academic background and addictive personality traits. Say what you will about autofiction, it does feel like the natural evolution from DFWs "authenticity" ploying.

What's the general opinion on auto-writing here? Is literature looping upon itself and is auto-writing the journalistic starting point that it evolves from and inevitably returns to? I think writing like this has been around since the dawn of language and the rest of the canon has been a rebellion and exploration that stems and returns to it. Sorry if I'm rambling.

What does /lit/ think of "New Sincerity"?

>The next real literary "rebels" in this country might well emerge as some weird bunch of anti-rebels, born oglers who dare somehow to back away from ironic watching, who have the childish gall actually to endorse and instantiate single-entendre principles. Who treat of plain old untrendy human troubles and emotions in U.S. life with reverence and conviction. Who eschew self-consciousness and hip fatigue. These anti-rebels would be outdated, of course, before they even started. Dead on the page. Too sincere. Clearly repressed. Backward, quaint, naive, anachronistic. Maybe that'll be the point. Maybe that's why they'll be the next real rebels. Real rebels, as far as I can see, risk disapproval. The old postmodern insurgents risked the gasp and squeal: shock, disgust, outrage, censorship, accusations of socialism, anarchism, nihilism. Today's risks are different. The new rebels might be artists willing to risk the yawn, the rolled eyes, the cool smile, the nudged ribs, the parody of gifted ironists, the "Oh how banal". To risk accusations of sentimentality, melodrama. Of overcredulity. Of softness. Of willingness to be suckered by a world of lurkers and starers who fear gaze and ridicule above imprisonment without law. Who knows.

>New Sincerity (closely related to and sometimes described as synonymous with post-postmodernism) is a trend in music, aesthetics, literary fiction, film criticism, poetry, literary criticism and philosophy that generally describes creative works that expand upon and break away from concepts of postmodernist irony and cynicism.

>Its usage dates back to the mid-1980s; however, it was popularized in the 1990s by American author David Foster Wallace.[1][2][3]

“Good Old Neon” by David Foster Wallace by Megan Boyle

>“Good Old Neon” is about a man who killed himself in 1991, told from the perspective of his post-death existence outside of time, written by a man who killed himself in 2008, published in 2004. It feels impossible to distill a ~40 page story that works on so many levels of thought and heart into 3-5 sentences, which is basically the premise of the story itself: that linear time and language are inherently limiting modes of describing the dimensionless flashes of perception that color each person’s interiority with significance, but until we die, we can only use one word after another to relate ourselves. Since his first successful lie at age 4, or arguably birth, the protagonist placed himself at the center of a “fraudulence paradox,” which meant that the more he tried to be something he wasn’t, the less he felt like the ideal image he performed, and “…the more of a fraud [he] felt like, the harder [he] tried to convey an impressive or likable image of [him]self so that other people wouldn’t find out what a hollow, fraudulent person [he] really [was].” What hits me so hard about “Good Old Neon” is the vagueness about its audience: the post-death protagonist addresses himself the moment before his death in a car, but he also makes lovingly dry meta-asides to another reader (from who, at least in the confines of a reader-author relationship, David Foster Wallace didn’t view himself as so apart), and I can’t help but feel witness to some similar shade of dialogue Wallace could’ve worked out with himself before his own death. The message of the story, to me, is not to succumb to our self-imposed limits; the message is in the beauty of trying, at least for a moment, to describe what it was like to be human.

correct

what happened to Liveblog 2020

is Megan ok?

i wonder what megan thinks about all this