/lit/ - Literature

Reading through Peter Mendelsund’s instagram page. For an instant he seems interesting. Then, beyond the NYT-lite aesthetics he’s helped to pioneer (with all its genius and charm), I catch glimpse of his personal life. Playing some jazz music on the piano to a bunch of boring looking old bitches (those bland white women who consider themselves charming when in fact they’re insufferable, and wouldn’t blink to ruin your life— even killers are more remorseful than that type). A text from his wife, “are you in Boston? I’m here” “yeah just leaving from east station now”, subtitles ‘modern marriage’… what misery. I wonder if they cheat on each other, for their own sake I hope so. He has a picture of a group of gorgeous teenage girls, with black hair and intelligent eyes and aristocratic features, sitting on a beach. Their budding breasts and slender arabesque curves barely visible beneath their summer clothes. For a minute, my interest is peaked, by the erotic possibilities of this nominally successful designer and author— this artist— and his haram of beautiful, barely legal, teenage loves. Three gorgeous young things with slender thighs and soft young features, to service the sexual desires of what I can only assume is an immensely sensual man. I scroll further. Despair! They are his daughters. In indignant contempt for this strangers entirely respectable middle class existence, I fling my computer across the room. As I pull up my pants in dismay, it occurs to me that if even this lone genius, existing anonymously within the centre of literary society, can bee so lacking in that bohemian spirit exiled from our age, what hope does any artist have? Closing the browser with heavy resignation, I open private browsing and begin to type… “4chan literature forum”… at last, I am home among equals.