THE MODERN DEATH
Literature
is deep and anguished,
But
pseudo-literature is shallow and smug.
Literature
allows one to peer
Into
the anguished heart
Of
its principal character,
Pseudo-literature
hinges upon the smug sociability
Of its superficial characters.
There
is criticism in literature,
A
deep, penetrating criticism of man and society,
A
'Steppenwolfian' revolt of
The higher spirit against the world.
Pseudo-literature
may, if Marxist,
Criticize
the bourgeoisie,
But
it will glorify the proletariat
And their social/industrial achievements.
Literature
reveals what lies hidden beneath
The veil of expedient custom and politeness.
Pseudo-literature's
only concern is with the veil,
The performance of everyday society.
If
literature is akin to
The
soulful kernel of creative writing,
Then
pseudo-literature is the materialist husk.
If
literature is essence,
Then
pseudo-literature is appearance, reflecting
The
degeneration of the novel
From
profundity to superficiality, commensurate with
A progressively more commercial tendency.
Literature
is dead or dying,
But
pseudo-literature proclaims
Its
base, automaton-like existence
From
the rooftops of contemporary publishers,
Like
a vulture gloating over a carcass.
Pseudo-literature
is the death-in-life,
The zombie-like complacency of commercial man.