Postmodernist literature is, by nature, complex to define and in trying to so categorize a given title as such, it’s all too easy to succumb to a series of strange debates and contradictions. This we know and this we accept. But, because the criteria is often so unclear, it’s also, unfortunately, one of those terms easily snatched up like gold and shortened for a handy go-to to address some degree of take-me-seriously-itis, especially when coupled with a disinterested yawn. As in: Oh, (yawn) that’s so pomo.
So, last week, when I was up to my eyelashes in the ongoing Kindle nonsense, I saw my regularly-enjoyed LA Times books blog post their list of 61 essential reads of postmodern literature.
The annotated list is cross-categorized by such details as “author is a
character”, “includes historical falsehoods”, and “comments on its own
bookishness” and the whole thing is complete with symbols. But, while
the post is all well and good, the comments, people, the
comments are a riot, particularly the moment in which great debate
erupts over pre-post-metafictional-pomo-neo-classical classification