Some contemporary artists are trying to make work that is awful. Deliberately awful. As though it would be the good kind of awful.
Dennis W. Sylvester, Confessions of a Moon Man.
A little girl’s pink T-shirt has a glitter cartoon of a butterfly on the front. As always: Is this celebration of nature or mockery?
Mortimer Sapulpa, Circus Giganticus.
When we reject the proposition of inherent value (or inherent truth), irony is all that remains. So, as though a fluid, irony fills the pore spaces of modern fiction.
Algernon Webb, A Speculative Autobiography.
Dangerous words: “Oh, that’s close enough. Isn’t it?”
Chet Sargento, Cuisine As Surface.
Contemporary art is just advertising. Each instance—each piece—carries the same advertising message: “Contemporary Art!”
Theodore Gaddis, The And Time.
Edgar was toiling away on his next book. The working title was On Artistic Integrity. We all anticipated a rather short tome.
Stephanie Biggers, Cat Farming in Nigeria.
It is crucial that we notice what the model neglects. After all, how stark can we make the world?
Simon W. Dunlap, The Physics of Foams.
Karl Marx knew at least one abiding fear: that his historical “vision” might be reducible to his own personal narrowness.
Clinton Withers, The State of Fury.
The lesson of LSD: despite the hallucinations, the world persists.
Alexander Dottie, Man of Light—A Biography of Captain Al Hubbard.
When a text is published—i.e., printed, bound, and distributed as a book—it moves one step closer to the landfill.
Christopher Jayne, A Critique of Sincerity.
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