Art is Dead and We’re All Tripping Over the Bones
Published March 2nd, 2000 | 
If it’s true that Modernism was a reaction to the death of God then it’s probably a safe assumption that contemporary literature is a reaction to the death of art.
This uncomfortable thought came to me early this morning while reading a reply to something I said on a listserv. I was being criticized for applying the same high standards to beginning writers as I do to experienced writers. The idea was, that I should indulge the ego of the beginner even if his work is bad in order to “build confidence.” It seems to me we have far too many writers in this world and most of them have little or no talent and the reason is that we are pumping-up their egos with false praise instead of nuturing them with discipline and knowledge. If you don’t understand the difference between “nuture” and “indulge” — look it up in a dictionary, a book which, if you write, should be your best friend.
A couple of years ago, I was having a conversation with a 17 year-old poet who had just read at an open mic. Her poetry was bad in the way most teenage writing is bad, but this wasn’t the problem. Who is to say that she couldn’t grow if she were serious about it? She knew she was bad and asked me how to improve. I asked her who her favorite poet was. You know what she said? “Marilyn Manson.”
“No, that’s not what I mean? He’s a rock star. What poetry do you read?” She gives me this deer-in-the-headlights stare. She didn’t even know what I was talking about. The sad thing is I’ve encountered hundreds of would-be writers who fit into this category.
Then, of course, there are those who do read one or two writers they admire. The “hooked on” Bukowski or Ginsberg or Maya Angelou or Rod McKuen set. They haven’t explored literature. They don’t have a clue what is out there. And, how can you write truly if you have no point of reference for your own experiences. How can you even know yourself well enough to write from your own experiences. Literature isn’t just a collection of words, it’s a symbolic representation of our interaction with the universe. We need it as much as need air. And we should crave it the way we crave sex or chocolate. Instead, we waste ourselves in the guilty pleasures of “Who Wants to be a Millionaire” and other psuedo-reality tv crap like “Survivor.” I dare you to disagree with me.
When the world finally does end, it won’t be bombs or plagues that do us in. It will be our own indulgences, apathy and our inability to communicate effectively with each other.
I lament the death of art. Where are the Dostoyevskys? Where are the future Sandburgs? When did editors stop caring about language and skill and start caring about “names” and marketability? When did beginning writers stop reading? More importantly, what can we do to stop this? Am I alone here?
