What we need is a new literary movement that incorporates guerilla tactics the street art movement used...

Why kill it? What do you propose could replace that genre it were to be killed?

Not him, but a terse cynical victorian sincerity would be good for me.

>victorian sincerity
I'm on board with your terse and cynical, but what do you mean by this? You want a highly elaborate ritual of manners?

I suppose one could argue we are over due for a moral awakening to contrast our ever increasingly nihilistic and brutish culture but that's not very fun to read. It comes off as pompous to suggest we throw ourselves backward to Victorian values in literature. It does not represent our current times

I mean like formal beautiful Anglo prose ala Hardy, Hawthorne, Eliot, Thackery, Dickens, Yeats, Synge, Brontes, Melville.

>Dickens
We can skip Dickens though desu

Christmas Carol/Tale of Two Cities final chapter Dickens is more what I am talking about, rather than you know...Bleak House.

but it is already dead, we meta-modernism now

Honor is just a code word for self destructive pride

That's just an extension of post-modernity and is equally as shit tier

Sincerity has dominated recent award winners and critical darlings. Unfortunately sincerity in prose looks a lot like supermarket prose.

>Unfortunately sincerity in prose looks a lot like supermarket prose.
Then how can anyone call that sincerity?

It is as people speak. Take Svetlana Alexeivich. Her nobel was predicated on oral histories. Or Marlon James, who's characters think and speak as they do in day to day life. Murakami's characters are as unsophisticated as the the people he depicts, excepting for his work underground, which is again an oral history. Munro, Modiano, Ishiguro, all their characters speak as if they were talking to you and me, which may not be in the high prose of yesteryear. Take Remains of the Day. Even with the main character being notoriously unreliable, it is sincere in that he believes his own lies, or is trying too.

When you are writing a character sincerely, it is difficult to write them beautifully, especially if the character is not beautiful.

Hence I have problems with throwing out the baby with the bathwater re: contemporary lit

OK dis neat

Oh, that I can understand. I've always been attracted to dirty realism. But I don't think people everyone speaks in such a mundane manner in their every day life. Sure, it might not be profound but when we get too hung up on vocabulary and grammar over the essence of the meaning of what is said, we lose something. I can appreciate that kind of language in literature, especially when it's crass and crude and as human as can get.

If we were to flex an above-average use or grasp of vocabulary on a day-to-day basis, we'd just be assholes and no one would ever want to talk to us. But those conversations translated to text, are more real than poetic and grammatically-minded prose.

These people as in who?

just write some new sincerity star wars porn fan fiction desu

*tips fedora*

Being an edgy guy is kinda lame now. It's like when people think swearing a lot for a "good conecept" is more effective (e.g. "Duck frump" video). The real counter culture is producing quality content and not being a pussy.

For some reason I just scrolled along without reading anything until I hit the Ewok. I apologize profusely.

dis

All aboard the terse cynical victorian sincerity train

we have one.

it's called Shitposting.

I personally would enjoy it if we returned to wearing the Elizabethan ruff and brought back pre-pill traditionalism

tripled

are there any good novels that are basically just shitbosting?
Preferably novels/novellas.

infinite jest

Fuck.
I guess there's no way around the memes when you're trying to post on Veeky Forums.

>not mentioning david copperfield his best work

a hardcover shitposting antology?

bump

As in the faggot who made the thread.

What does Veeky Forums think of The Sellout? My dad and a friend have recommended it.
I have a feeling that it's going to be an allegory about something we've all heard before.

Choose the Force™. Choose the Jedi. Choose a Master. Choose the Council. Choose a fucking blue lightsaber. Choose protocol droids, R2 units and clone troopers. Choose Naboo, Coruscant and Tatooine. Choose fixed-interest credit payments to the Kaminoans. Choose a Corellian freighter that did the Kessel run in less than twelve parsecs. Choose a Wookiee. Choose sneaking into the Death Star, deactivating a tractor beam, waving your lightsaber in Darth Vader's face. Choose turning into a blue ghost at the end of it all, disappearing into thin air, nothing more than an embarrassment to the whiny farmboy you trained on the way to Alderaan.

Choose your destiny. Choose repackaged irony.

But why would I want to do a thing like that? I chose not to choose life. I chose something else. And the reasons? There are no reasons. Who needs reasons when you've got death sticks?

We need nothing. We have nothing.

idk why you listed poets but if you're looking for poetry what you're talking about has already been done by larkin and fenton

Don't be so presumptuous. Just because someone does not have the same tastes as you does not mean they are ignorant or illiterate. That's a very pretentious and close-minded way of thinking and only reflects negatively on yourself

nice get

You mean the Beat trash? It was always dated. Everything you hacks do and are is dated, you even date yourselves.

>It cannot become a dated fashion though. It has to be raw and timeless

Barthes in Writing Degree Zero wrote about how exactly this desire for a timeless purity of a liberating style is always paradoxical and doomed:

"Writing is precisely this compromise between freedom and remembrance, it is this freedom which remembers and is free only in the gesture of choice, but is no longer so within duration. I can today select such and such mode of writing, and in so doing assert my freedom, aspire to the freshness of novelty or to a tradition; but it is impossible to develop it within duration without gradually becoming a prisoner of someone else's words and even of my own. A stubborn after-image, which comes from all the previous modes of writing and even from the past of my own, drowns the sound of my present words. Any written trace precipitates, as inside a chemical at first transparent, innocent and neutral, mere duration gradually reveals in suspension a whole past of increasing density, like a cryptogram.

Writing as Freedom is therefore a mere moment. "

>punk is cucked and dead