I want to see Camp Dada as a fungal body, one in which we accept that the world will not be saved, and so strive for new ways of sustaining life in the present.
Using serious modes and channels to critique writers like Franzen only legitimizes them as serious people to be debated. What better consolation than to shitpost?
Attention Library: the phrase verges on redundancy. But unlike in most libraries, where the act of attention is a means to an end, in this Library attention is the main attraction: one visits the Milcom Room to attend, as it were, to attention itself. Is such an exercise possible?
If we know what we see we’ll know how to act. Or more like deep fake me once, shame on you, deep fake me twice who am I, where, why.
I couldn’t marry the Great Man and be the Great Man.
They’re a potent reminder that we still live in the long, dark shadow of the twentieth century—the bargains made therein, the general Faustian demeanor accepted as a national character—and that a certain kind of serious, Modernist fiction still has a place and resonates.
The war that the WGA is currently fighting—against the gig-ification of their jobs and the abandonment of new workers in the field to low-wage contingency—looks a lot like the war higher ed already lost.
My senior year of college, I got skinny off raw food. Soaked almonds, sprouted buckwheat, cucumber soup. The first time...
And maybe that brings us to the myth of chronology: linear time equals progression. No. There is no linear progression and we’re reproducing subjection again and again.
The most hard-wearing and commonsensical of writerly truisms is the avoidance of cliché.
“Next Year” can still be exciting to us because of how it occupies the material it’s made with, and what that kind of occupation might have to say about the way we read both poems and calendars.
The Shining lives in my consciousness like no other work of art.