It feels as though experience is now detached from local context, meaning there is no particularly "unique" experience a Frenchman has that an Englishman doesn't. There is no country with a unique culture, it is all a blue of vague office work, supermarkets, rental apartments, online dating, posting on some kind of forum. Furthermore, while Zola or Orwell could visit a poor area and give voice to the voiceless, portraying their lives with empathy and acute observational skills, these voiceless people now express themselves online rendering their representation by an outsider irrelevant. It is no coincidence that women now dominate the list of newly published books (something like 95% of new novels are published by females), considering that the topic of sex is now the only means to captive a jaded, weary, atomised audience, ideally if the sex is nominally taboo (e.g., BDSM) which is particularly of interest to superficially edgy young women who want to self-insert as the awkward, frumpy girl who nonetheless attracts Chad ("w-what could he see in little old me?") and experiences Serious Emotional Turmoil in her feelings towards him. All but the most aesthetically pleasing, extroverted, marketable (to females) male Chad writers are now cast aside much in the same way most men are now cast aside in the job market or in dating. For every Knausgaard who makes it (with the help of female publishers and marketing assistants etc, who would all love to fuck him) there are two hundred depressed, solitary, resentful beta males who can't hope to publish their historically intriguing, or otherwise distinct (if somewhat autistic) novels. What does the modern man even experience any more? Definitely not sex, likely just living with his parents or in a rented room, going to some soul-crushing job where he is forced to act meekly and subserviently to his female manager (who treats him like a pitiful, naive younger brother), and sperging out over the internet in his free time in the hope that some form of societal collapse is imminent. That is, the white male author. There are of course plenty of non-white authors who on the one hand strike a pose as being masculine and having nothing to do with those boring old white guys in ivory towers, but on the other hand write copiously about the tragedy of walking into a town which has been 99% white for millenia and being looked at a bit funny (which wouldn't happen should a white man take a trip through Tanzania, of course). The novel is dead. Culture is dead. Society is dead. The best you can do is isolate yourself, hoard money, and watch with bitterness as everything collapses around you.