The best living writer. Only jealous goyim would say otherwise.

>>24513447 (OP)
Pynchon, Delillo and Lobo Antunes are still alive.

>>24513462
Postmodernism is over. DFW killed it.

>>24513447 (OP)

>>24513447 (OP)
Jews are truly mesmerizing. I'll stop being anti-semitic and start commending them. They truly know themselves and the will to power. I'll admit: They're better than white people. In every way. Less individualistic, more tribal, not moralfags... I can't cope anymore with moralfagging like "oh but they killed goyim! oh, but they subvert goyim nations!" like that's not truly part of the will to power and a very nietzschean aspect of Jewish greatness that unites all of them against the outgroup.

>>24513447 (OP)
>an historian

>>24513462
Does Delillo still write?

>>24513447 (OP)
>Blum
Hmm, a subtle Joyce reference I see.

>>24515023
It’s based on a story Harold Bloom told him about himself but Bloom most likely made it up

>>24513540
they cry like bitches when actual barbarians attack them. they're spiritually female.

>>24513447 (OP)
He is a genius. In a few years he will win the Nobel and hopefully he will mention his /lit days in his speech (unlike when he won the Pulitzer).

>>24515218
Show me where in the archive Joshua Cohen posted?

>>24515218
>He is a genius
Where's the evidence?

>>24513447 (OP)
Stylistically, this passage wears its erudition lightly but insistently. There is not a single academic citation, yet the diction is steeped in seminar-room grandiosity. Ruben’s voice wants to dazzle, but the performative twitches (parenthetical “yes,” self-interrupting “I guess”) function like disclaimers, half-apologizing for the very performance they cannot resist. That combination of apologetic bravado feels distinctively mid-century American Jewish, echoing Bellow or Roth while vibrating at a contemporary frequency; the tension between assimilation and cultural particularity is audible even before any plot has emerged.

For all its charm, the very exuberance that dazzles can tip into overstatement, saturating the prose with a relentless cleverness that threatens to exhaust the reader before the story properly begins. Ruben’s penchant for parenthetical fussing and self-correction foregrounds style so aggressively that substance risks slipping into the margins; one begins to notice the performance of erudition more than the ideas it might meant to convey. That same performative verve leaves little room for affective shading: we are presented with intellect and wit, but emotion remains largely abstract, so the narrator’s humanity can feel curiously distant despite the self-exposure.