/lit/ - Literature

I'm coming to see more and more that the tumor killing modern literature and art writ large is the present day's complete and exclusive fascination with "personal art"
Art and the artist have become one in the same and no one is interested in those truths that transcend identity and speak to the soul of our species. It's all about the struggles of the artist, the life of the artist, the societal pressures on the artist, the identity of the artist. When the scope goes beyond the individual, it stays firmly within the individual's kin, and through that exploration, of course, the artist's identity is also explored. And when the artist faces struggle, it is only marketable if there exists someone else who does not also face the same issue.
Poems just long autobiographical sentences littered with thoughtless paragraph breaks. They dwell on how the artist has been wronged and how the artist has struggled and the things that the artist has done and seen.
Creativity is gone and we have atomized ourselves as little struggling seeds, each with a story that must be told, while we have completely lost sight of what bonds us and that which is beyond us all
Beauty isn't the sublime anymore. Now beauty is the bravery of wearing an orange tank top as a "revolution" against the adversity we like to pretend we face in the easiest era of human existence.
Weep for us, /lit/. We're dead.

I'm coming to see more and more that the tumor killing modern literature and art writ large is the present day's complete and exclusive fascination with "personal art"
Art and the artist have become one in the same and no one is interested in those truths that transcend identity and speak to the soul of our species. It's all about the struggles of the artist, the life of the artist, the societal pressures on the artist, the identity of the artist. When the scope goes beyond the individual, it stays firmly within the individual's kin, and through that exploration, of course, the artist's identity is also explored. And when the artist faces struggle, it is only marketable if there exists someone else who does not also face the same issue.
Poems just long autobiographical sentences littered with thoughtless paragraph breaks. They dwell on how the artist has been wronged and how the artist has struggled and the things that the artist has done and seen.
Creativity is gone and we have atomized ourselves as little struggling seeds, each with a story that must be told, while we have completely lost sight of what bonds us and that which is beyond us all
Beauty isn't the sublime anymore. Now beauty is the bravery of wearing an orange tank top as a "revolution" against the adversity we like to pretend we face in the easiest era of human existence.
Weep for us, /lit/. We're dead.