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.