The real issue (and, trust me, Rhodesie agrees) is the hot "literary fiction," including award-winners, we're seeing spread out like porn at the bookstores. Since when did you need dark glasses to look at these displays? Da-glow colors, and all written by good-looking 24 y.o.s.
The flat prose, the lack of valid-and-thus-interesting tension in the narrator's voice, the gormless structures of quiddity (whole pages) that just serve to move the "character" from one room to the next. What hellish MFA program did these writers--like hideous and overweening pupae--artfully emerge from? I'm gutted, to use their word, gutted by these displays, as I stagger out into clean, convincing air.
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