With art, everything is dominated by power laws.

It’s an Alec-Baldwin-type-situation where “first place is a Cadillac, second place is a pair of steak knives, third place is you’re fired.”

If you’re a novelist, you can just replace “being fired” with “so basically, no one actually read your book, my friend.”

Congratulations! You are now officially in good…

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Outside of New York, being a novelist is a lonely vocation.

Few people read and I’m always surprised when I meet someone under 40 who reads literary fiction. When I mention I read (or write), people are mildly impressed and the conversation quickly shifts to the next topic of actual interest. Relative to the position of being a novelist, when I add the additional elements of being Asian-American, and, more specifically, Chinese-American, this feeling of loneliness compounds a little bit more, but not by much.

I think the element of race in my fiction is ultimately not so central. On some level I hold the sentiment that all men are my brothers, and, being Western-raised, my Asian-Americanness is largely phenotypic and therefore positionally determined—people treat me a certain way because of my appearance, a truism which applies equally to every person everywhere in the world. My height and my build and baldness are, in all likelihood, equally weighted variables that overdetermine the initial response function of existing in a social landscape in this particular body.

I’m currently working on a piece about how Asian-American culture is really just about the relentless pursuit of technocapital (and nothing else).

I think the reasons for this are difficult to model and extend beyond the typical argument about striverism and I’ll get into that later. But sufficed to say, even if we take the notably (cringe) landmark of Crazy Rich Asians, the operative words are not “crazy”—or even “Asian”—but “rich.”

Capital is the almost the universal pursuit of any capable Asian-American I’ve met and techne is the straightest path toward that accumulation. The most capable among us are basically all Gary Tans in the spiritual sense.

There are always exceptions: the Taiwanese-American film Didi, for instance, was very good.

But examples like this are few and far between. It’s not about one person pulling sword from stone and entering the pantheon of artistic or literary greatness. It’s about whether or not Asian-America can produce a cohort of people at that level.

If we widen our aperture to the global Sinosphere, the conversation becomes more interesting.

As part of the research for this piece I’ve been reminded of two notable East Asian successes: high-taste Korean filmmaking and Japanese auteurs.

Of course, in the literary sense, we have the titans of late 20th century Japanese novelists like Osamu Dazai and Yukio Mishima, but with the example of Japan it’s particularly impressive how their culture of auteurship and artistry have extended across multiple domains. Hideo Kojima, for instance, is a generational interactive narrative-media auteur. Metal Gear Solid 1 & 2 have held up extraordinarily well over time, and if you look at the work of , you can see how deep Japan’s well of talent truly is.

Another example is Yousuke Yukimatsu’s breakout performance in Boiler Room went deservedly viral due the sheer manic energy of his performance, which has been clipped below. It’s hard to believe the man is over forty years old.

The reality is that even if they’ve largely departed from breakthrough contemporary literary fiction, the Japanese guys still have the sauce. That same pool of talent has just laterally transferred out of literary fiction into other mediums. If we move the map a bit, in live-action filmmaking, the best Korean guys have the sauce as well.

But what about the contemporary Chinese?

It’s a wasteland. You have to circle back to Asian-America.

Outside of notable exemplars like Ted Chiang or who both write truly stellar science fiction, I do not feel that Chinese guys have the sauce.

And that is because—and I suppose I can hardly blame them—they are currently engaged in a whole-of-society response that involves climbing the tech tree as fast as possible so that they can avoid getting obliterated by the American AGI wunderwaffen. This is a vacuum for elite human capital and sucks the energy out of the arts. And that’s even before we encounter the problem of a centralized censorship apparatus in the arts.

It would be easy to solely blame communism, but Chinese-American art isn’t much better than the homeland. Obviously, something deeper is going on here. I suspect it’s a deeper civilizational malaise.

Here’s an interesting theory from an account I stumbled upon recently:

I do think things will get better over time, but it’s an interesting asymmetry to observe.

Who among us will pick up the crown and achieve the Great (cultural) rejuvenation of the Chinese nation?

When I was a young man and read a lot about philosophy I came across Stephen Jay Gould’s concept of “non-overlapping magisterium” - the idea that science and religion made non-overlapping claims about reality and you couldn’t critique one from the perspective of the other.

I remember reading this and thinking—damn, this guy is completely retarded.

Of course, I still believe that.

This is obviously wrong and untenable and what ended up happening is that secular liberalism won a philosophical war which overdetermined the next thing that happened: after winning a philosophical war, it won the culture war, and, in the process, drained any residual elan vital that remained in mainline Christianity (and evangelicism in particular) from the body politic and the zeitgeist more broadly.

We are now living in the era of the singularity and it is a decidedly post-theistic era.

(In case you didn’t notice, we’re building god out of sand, etcetera etcetera).

It is apparent to me that to whatever extent we see some level of niche counter-cultural adoption of religiosity it’s an aesthetic costume as commodified as any other (e.g. tradcaths, orthobros, etc.).

It’s not serious.

This is one reason I like Gasda’s writing: his work contains many of the latent moral anchors of Christianity but he’s honest about the fact that their metaphysical foundations have dissolved into modernity. It’s interesting because, like many in New York City, his protagonists have drank and drank until their cup runneth over, only to arrive at the same conclusions that were evident over two millennia ago:

Contemporary American culture feels like we’re speedrunning a series of longstanding Protestant social norms and then re-learning some variation of “so it turns out it’s Chesteron’s fence all-the-way-down.”

But history, you see, is a ratchet that only goes one way.

The lesson here is simple: systems of thought compete with one another, and totalizing systems defeat weaker systems in the memetic commons.

Insofar as “market capitalism induces you to cum as much as possible in as many ways as possible with minimal latency” is a system of thought, it’s fucking invincible, dawg.

Silicon Valley is a system of thought that has defeated New York City as a system of thought. GPU’s go brrr and the value of the text trends to zero and the literati get nuked from orbit into nanoscale cultural irrelevance and even grandpa is watching Tik Tok dances by nulliparous young Asian women instead of reading Faulkner.

And yet, interesting work can come out of tension: the tension that exists between the literary class and the engineers who are shaping the world of the future.

One way of putting the problem:

• Silicon Valley thinkers like have thought very deeply about the future and what it would look like and sometimes write interesting short stories about the future, but are not practiced in the particular form of prose artistry and deep literary character-building or mood-setting in the same way that elite novelists are.1 This isn’t unreasonable, we can’t expect these guys to be Cormac McCarthy.

• Elite novelists are oftentimes skilled prose artists or carefully observed painters of human character & psychology, but lack even a basic understanding of the technological precipice we’re in. Half of them still seem convinced of the “stochastic parrot” thesis, meanwhile, agent swarms are clearly already capable of automating most of the white collar economy.

Consider the state of technology in the golden era of modern literature—roughly the 50’s to the 80’s/90’s. So much incredible work got made in this era and we’re still (rightfully) enjoying it decades later.

But why?

Think about the world in which these writers lived. Planes, trains, automobiles, cities—these parameters of their physical space were not dramatically transformed over four decades. Even complex mechanical systems would have been legible to even the ancients in a way that digital systems could not be. A car engine is not wholly alien to the object-permanence of the ape-brain. You could be a novelist and be largely ignorant about, say, internal combustion engines, because your world-model didn’t dramatically shift in response to the latest iteration of motor vehicles, and so on. Thiel has correctly argued this.

A more precise cut of my thesis: specialization in academia and the self-sorting and self-selection of social circles in the arts leads to two structural problems for modern novelists:

1. They have little to no understanding of the historical precipice we’re in—of transformative artificial intelligence. This likely holds true even if AI is merely a “normal technology” since the potential for labor disruption and power concentration remains incredibly severe.

2. The entire fulcrum of history now turns on (1). But the modal contemporary novelist cannot write a novel that includes this in their world-model. So literature that’s ostensibly contemporary really isn’t topical at all but focused on petite subcultural dynamics that have already melted into air like varying forms of race opera, affairs between creative writing professors and their students, and so on.

Here’s the fact of the matter: the year is 2026 and the art we make in the next 5-10 years might be the last meaningful art that can be made before machine intelligence maps the neural territory required to create aesthetic superstimulus - i.e. ’s “semantic apocalypse” theory.

I say this as someone who likes literature, wordcels, and the peoples of the humanities class. Substack is the perfect platform for aging, childless millennials to commiserate about our dying niche conservatory art form five minutes before the singularity uploads us into a data center or repurposes our atoms into hedonic computronium to simulate Chinese heaven for a googleplex worth of digitized shrimp-brains.

Do you understand what time it is?

Enter Gasda

Stranger Beauty is an experimental novel about the near-future.

Gasda, unlike most novelists of this generation, pays close attention to the moment we’re in and the implications it has for the future.

It’s impossible to talk about this book without talking about the structure.

The novel has a hybrid structure, broadly spanning a couple of shifting forms:

• A conventionally structured fictional narrative about a playwright/writer and his young family set “five minutes” in the future - a city with drones, regenerative neurological treatments for otherwise catastrophic brain injures, personal AI’s, and so on.

• A winding, non-linear diary of existential observations, aphorisms similar to his writer’s diary.

• A screenplay of an experimental, dreamlike film.

• A stream-of-consciousness concluding sequence.

Gasda’s work in context

I’ve never seen any of his plays but my readers will know that I was a big fan of his novel The Sleepers (published by ).

What made The Sleepers particularly good was how the narrative organically plays out the essential critique of liberalism - liberalism is just the inability to marry a single person and relinquish the pleasure of sex with new people which is modernity which is wireheading, and even if the civilizational critique of wireheading is perhaps latently Christian (Gasda especially so?) it’s not invalid from a reproductive perspective.

New York, as Land would say, is not just an IQ-shredder, it’s an IQ-shredder that satiates you by jerking you off with the flesh of other people.

Stranger Beauty does not anchor itself on that same thesis. It’s something else, something—well—stranger, but it periodically calls back to the hedonism of city life.

Hedonic treadmills have multiplied in the future, but aren’t what the book is really about.

What paying attention looks like

The book starts with the basic premise of “what might the world look like in the near-future”?

It follows, basically, a version of the “AI is a normal general purpose technology” outlined by academics like —notably different, but not to the level of Dyson spheres or Skynet-style apocaplypse.

Imagine a world where we get superhuman coders, mathematicians, but this intelligence explosion remains bottlenecked by limited verifiable data from the real world.2

The near-American future of Stranger Beauty is an interregnum period—likely temporary, unstable, and certainly dreamlike, with humanity being lifted from the moorings of our comparative technological stasis as we ascend the terminal spiral of progress.

Gasda’s world-model of the future has drones, regenerative neurotechnology, ubiquitous conversational AI’s, but can best be characterized as a simple extrapolation of the current moment:

I was interested in the setting in the novel, which was painted in broad brushstrokes rather than William-Gibson-style intensely detailed world-building.

The book is relentlessly existential.

It’s like looking at our current wasteland of smartphone addiction, limbic capitalism, meaningless sex, and concluding that it’s only going to get worse from here, and asking the question—wait, it’s only going to get worse???

So what’s it actually about?

I could tell you about the plot but it’s not a plot-driven novel; it’s a mood-piece that asks whether or not your soul is going to survive the meat-grinder of technocapital up to and including the moment where nanomachines reconstitute your neurons in the wake of catastrophic brain damage:

The answer, he says, is yes (maybe).

And I had to think about the answer for a long time, because even after finishing the book, I wasn’t sure if I was correctly understanding it. In part the decoherence feels deliberate because the future is going to cause so many of you to dissociate severely, irreversibly, and most of us will not come out of the other end wholly ensouled.

Structure, momentum, and ambition

It’s clear the book is ambitious and this ambition is in part why I felt compelled to write a review. I had originally intended to combine it with a review of his play, DOOMERS, but I’ll be bracketing that out for a future review.

The key question for me, as a reviewer, is whether or not the unique structure of the book works both as a whole and as individual sections.

Sleepers has a broadly conventionally structure, for example, and was executed very well in that respect. Although it hybridized elements of theatrical structure, it was very tight structurally.

What Stranger Beauty tries to accomplish is substantially more difficult for two reasons:

1. It’s both harder and easier to write a minimally-plotted, “plotless”-style of novel (the literary equivalent of the “slice-of-life anime”) because each page has to be compelling in isolation even though you’re liberated from the constraints of “what happens next.” Teju Cole’s Open City is an example of this done well, and his book Tremor is him failing at the same task.

2. Doing this and also doing three others things is even harder. By default, abrupt, segmented blocks of distinct formal styles breaks continuity in the mind of the reader without expert-level compensatory machinations.

A good example of this are the transitions between the conventional novel’s story and the diaristic aphorism sequence that repeatedly intercut the more standard-style narrative. I found the former interesting and the latter lacking in momentum. Whatever forward movement I felt in the core story felt broken by the interruption of the existential diary pages, which, while sometimes compelling in isolation (see some quotes above), didn’t quite congeal into a unified stream. With an approach like this, whole must be greater than the sum of its parts. Certainly one could argue that this disorientation was a deliberate and conscious stylistic risk, but for me as a reader, I found it challenging to feel like I was being pulled forward through the novel in the way that I like to be drawn into a book.

Whereas Sleepers had a tremendous sense of momentum and impending doom, Stranger Beauty is more slowly paced, but I think the pace felt too slow for me throughout.

Interestingly, the screenplay-sequence is the strongest section of the book and the most conventionally structured. Even outside of this sequence, I felt that the skeleton of the story would have lent itself incredibly well to a Gaspar Noe-style ENTER THE VOID type of film. The novel almost begs to be converted into a strongly opinionated visual medium (and indeed I hope that does happen one day!).

Even if the structure didn’t quite work for me, the book makes a sincere attempt to grapple with the cavernous despair of our coming post-labour future. Its philosophical salience is meaningful and topical, centering around questions in philosophy of mind, wireheading as an intrinsic attractor-basin for technocapital, and human-AI relationships. It’s valiant in that it confronts the future rather than evading it.

What can I say?

It’s a strange book, and, in fairness, the author told you it was going to be (it’s in the title, after all!).

Introducing my enormous Chinese son. He’s six-six and two-hundred and seventy-five pounds and I named him Kimi. He’s not real because I don’t have a son but if I did have a son he’d cosplay in some tier 4 rural city in Northern China as a member of the elite imperial guard and go viral on instagram as an interesting ethnic novelty goddamn that motherfucker is big. If I’m ever seated at a crowded chain-restaurant and a brawl breaks out in the IHOP I’ll continue eating my pancakes, moisturized, unbothered and staying in my lane, not even slightly pressed, because I’m the father of an enormous Chinese son and size is the number one variable that moves the mind of the American, regardless of colour, race, or creed. I’m just a regular sized guy but my son—my son is enormous and since I’m his biological father I get to aura farm my son for lineal-descendant-points and the guys in the corner will notice his physical parameters, Steve-Sailer-style, forming a running commentary from their vantage point in the restaurant. Christ—that is one big Chinaman. That motherfucker looks bigger than Ohtani. What the fuck are they feeding these guys. Back in my day these guys were never taller than like five-ten, maybe six-feet on the upper bound. I hear it’s HGH but not sure if anybody has been able to verify that. No, it’s actually just some combination of protein and civilizational willpower. I thought they don’t have good protein over there, I thought even the milk for babies was poison. Also did you hear about Kimi hitting the frontier? Frankly I’m hearing Effective Altruists Are Not Doing Well and are worried if the Politburo is going to shut down their cnc orgies well before they colonize the lightcone. They’re afraid that their American Wunderwaffen won’t be able to kill all the Chinese people and the communists in particular. Real. Real. Yeah so anyways Kimi is a 2.8 trillion parameter model and this kid is apparently eighteen years old and he’s six-six and two-hundred and seventy-five pounds which we didn’t think was biologically possible so we need to update our Bayesian priors there. No I don’t believe there was a chapter in HPMOR about this and I don’t think the big Yud is aware. Catch the game last night? Also does this kid ball? He looks like he balls honestly. I can’t imagine not putting him in for tryouts as a parent. Well I’m hearing he’s not good at sports but apparently he stuffed this other kid in a locker over a dispute about some Pokemon cards and I’m afraid we’re entering the territory of serious narrative violation and I’m not feeling so good, Mr. Stark.

As a reader, I’m very much in the camp of Bret Easton Ellis. Even before the quality of prose, voice is the number one thing that pulls me into a work. is an American novelist from a decidedly androgenic tradition where a particular middle-aged male sadness carries the weight of the entire novel in the style of a Hispanic-American Houellebecq. Dryback is a book about male horniness, and, more broadly, it’s a book about wireheading and technology in general and what that does to meaning.

That is to say—it is sad, and I say that as a writer who wrote a book that many readers felt was intensely depressing.1

Like Ecchi, by the standards of modernity, I am old. This means that I am a contemporary of his: I am about forty years old and the Norwood Terminator has obliterated my once-beautiful hairline and I have wrinkles around my eyes when I smile and I remember Nokia brick cell phones and the transition from no-internet to dial-up to broadband and playing Starcraft on Windows 97. Occasionally when I run into younger and smarter people in corpo-world they affectionately joke that I’m a boomer and feel mildly embarrassed when I need them to help me do something they consider the GUI-equivalent of opening a PDF.

Being old in the year 2026 means something else as well—it means that I’ve lived through roughly 3-4 cycles of gender-discourse around sex, dating, and desire. What’s interesting to me is that I can feel the speed of cultural evolution is accelerating because social media has radically increased memetic liquidity; that is to say, it’s made the transmission of social norms and behaviours hyperliquid. One has the sense that Zoomers are in a state of continuous cultural anxiety because there is no social superstructure that can confer a sense of stability.

Hyperliquidity is a property of the modern app-based dating market where attractive people can effectively order other human beings like commodities in a way that fundamentally degrades the human condition.

It is also a property of pornography. If pornography is best conceptualized as a form of wireheaded superstimulus, then Dryback is a cautionary tale about the terminal endpoint of sexual desire: as an autocatalytic process that results in your own annihilation. What we see through iterative evolutionary processes is the progressive enhancement of pornography via deepfakes, OnlyFans parasocially-supercharged desire dynamics, and so on.

Ecchi’s Dryback is nominally about an underemployed guy in New York with a deepfake pornography addiction who has aged out of viability in the sexual marketplace but nonetheless lucks into a relationship with an attractive white woman. The tension in the novel comes from the overdetermined certainty that something horrible is going to happen. It’s a voice-driven novel anchored on the anomie of a man whose sole nexus of meaning is his own desirability to others and the utility of the desirability in bringing about sexual and egoic gratification.

The comparison here to Houellebecq is obvious, and the novel felt like a reformulation of Platform (particularly the ending). I mean that in a complimentary fashion since it’s very hard to nail the Houellebecqian voice without being overly imitative.

Dryback is, broadly speaking, well written and decently executed in the structural sense. The plot itself is not particularly central to the reader’s enjoyment of the novel as it is heavily scene-based, although I found that the story sagged about halfway through (which is not an uncommon issue with many debut novels). Ultimately, I found the book’s blackpilled ending to be a depressing albeit valid artistic choice. I’m very glad is out there releasing books like this because there’s a macro-level momentum that needs to be sustained for stories like this to continue to get traction.

When it comes to art, you often only have to get one thing right for a story to be compelling on some level. With Dryback, the voice of the protagonist hooked me fairly strongly even though some of the subplots and humor didn’t quite land for me. Over time, I think this book will rightfully find its readership among appreciators of the androgenic style.

recently hosted me on his podcast. I think the most interesting idea we talked about was this theory about the new axis of cultural conflict being Nietszschean transhumanism vs. secular post-Christian egalitarianism.

I originally saw this idea forwarded by (always ahead of the curve), but was most interestingly explored by Zero H.P. Lovecraft (who has unfortunately since nuked his Substack essay series on Christo-Nietzschean synthesis). What’s interesting is that this conflict transects the left-right divide because you have progressives aligning with right-wing populists like Joe Allen, who is backed by Steve Bannon.1

I think we’re in the very early stages of a kind of mass populist anti-AI reaction which will also spill over into opposition against related power-concentrating technologies like human genetic enhancement, Brain-Computer Interfaces, and so on. All these sentiments will entangle together because people really fear the intense concentration of power (as they should).

As much as my aesthetic and metaphysical preferences align with the egalitarian faction, this faction will of course lose to technocapital in the end. The arms race, in my view, is the fundamental constitutive dynamic of all multi-agent systems—human or otherwise. This means that the people with the drone swarms and the compute are going to kill (or at least dominate) those without, and so on.

Oddly enough, largely because of Chinese industrial policy, we may still achieve the relative dispersion of power if things like AGI become commoditized (if American frontier labs achieve their technofeudalist aims, we will either be slaves or dead). At the very least it’s my hope that this produces some great art (I’ll be working to help make sure that happens!).

The Russell Walter Substack

You Will Not Escape the Permanent Underclass, w/ARX-Han

We discuss…

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3 months ago · 19 likes · 4 comments · Russell Walter

There’s a hilarious sketch with the Wasian actor where he’s duel-wielding an OG copy of DFW’s Infinite Jest and a matcha latte while he’s trying to pick up a woman outside a subway station in Manhattan.

One of the funniest things you can see in New York, of course, is the Men Who Are Reading in Public, that is to say, they are transparently “reading” a paper book as a bit—as a form of attention-seeking behaviour so that they can get laid. Aside from the charming guilelessness of youth, this is indeed an incredibly funny indictment of how post-literate our society is.

“But how do you know they’re doing it performatively, Han?”

Listen buddy, I wasn’t born yesterday, I’m not autistic, okay—the way you can tell if a man is reading performatively is purely by way of intuitive judgment. It’s not dissimilar to those guys on the subway who are listening to music and pretend-drumming while they’re bobbing they’re heads, as if to say—“hey, did you know I like MUSIC? I’m actually not like OTHER guys—I’m a MUSICIAN. Thank you for your attention to this matter.”

There’s a million versions of this behavior in every society at every point in human history, and holding an OG copy of Infinite Jest is just the nth iteration of guys randomly doing pullups or pushups or calling attention to themselves with whatever the contemporary mating display dynamics happen to be.

Bret Easton Ellis has commented that paperbacks were once the original smartphones: a form of portable entertainment that people would bring with them everywhere to fill the space of dead time.

In the year 2026, the only apparent reason for a man to carry a paperback is to use it as as conversational prop to accompany a tote bag.

This is funny. We needn’t be critiquing this. It simply doesn’t matter at all.

Analog media are just one among many potential tools for status signalling (sexual or otherwise).

The traditional critique of signalling-motivated engagement with the arts is that it’s fundamentally corrosive to the underlying enterprise. If the primary motivation for engaging with literature is a sort of intellectual snobbishness or the desire to cultivate a surface-level aesthetic, then the content of the work seems obviously secondary to that. This is why Sam Kriss hates A24 movies for being thematically thin.1

But if we interrogate this phenomenon further, we start to understand that status-seeking behaviour has always been integrated with the cultural production of art. You’re telling me guys like Hemingway and Mishima weren’t narcissists? You’re telling me these guys weren’t writing bangers partly because they wanted to get pussy and/or bussy? You think Lord Byron wasn’t trying to get his fuck on?

Art is unique in that even the most deranged, narcissistic, psychopathology-laden person is capable of creating narrative beauty. We’re not making spreadsheets here. We’re not fine-tuning large-language models. We can be a little bit chaotic. We can be a complete piece-of-shit human being, even. It’s not a character-test.

And that is because the artist is really just a conduit through which recombinant experience flows through the gate of consciousness and blooms into the vessel of a particular medium.

It’s fine, actually, if people engage with literary fiction partly (or even primarily) due to crass psychosexual or status-oriented reasons. Regardless of motivation, it still makes the number go up: the number of books, the number of readers, the number of people at literary parties in Manhattan, and so on. Who the fuck cares. When the number goes up, you open up the possibility for true greatness. Probability is your friend here. The more the merrier. Take the work seriously, not yourself.

I was reading ’s excellent piece, The Great Zombification, and it’s yet another data point that we’re heading to a post-literate age dominated first by short-form video, and soon, by immersive AR/VR experiences that will stack narrative superstimuli into a packet so appetizing that broad swathes of the population will probably drop out of participating in base reality altogether.

Owen is an interesting character in that he feels like the exception that proves the rule—talented, hyper-literate, under 25—and a massive outlier among his generational cohort.

Literary pessimism is very much a millennial-and-older generational lamentation about the misbegotten youth, which is funny, since it might well be boomers who have the worst cog-sec when it comes to info-ops embedded into the slopstream of the Facebook news feed, Tik Tok, and so on.1

But the thing we have to remember is that complete literary extinction doesn’t seem to be a realistic possibility. Theatre plays, an even more niche art form dating back several millennia, still exist among a tiny substratum of the population.

It’s really, really hard to annihilate an art form because of the breadth of human cognitive diversity. Even if literary fiction becomes a “special autistic hobby” dominated by enhanced humans genetically engineered for upgraded attention spans, it’ll still exist among some tiny faction of the (spiritual) elite.

What we writers are mourning, really, is the relative transition of the novelist as a 20th century, titanic personality that held court somewhere near the center of the culture—of Hemingways, Mishimas, and so on being considered the artistic peers of film directors, actors, and so on.

The structure of literary celebrity was of course a sort of proto-influencer culture at the time, and market capitalism has now refined the maximally dopaminergic elements of influencerdom and dispensed with the baggage of aesthetic content.

That is to say, being a novelist has transitioned from a high-status activity to a no-status activity.

This is the real affliction of our current crop of novelists, methinks. At least in part, it’s middle-aged guys subconsciously whining “but why can’t writing books get me pussy?”

I think this fall from grace is beautiful, actually.

Because there is no material (or even plausibly) social upside to the act, the system of literary production increasingly selects for purists.

And, more importantly, these purists are situated at the base of an exponential that will soon swallow everything else whole.

I’m speaking, of course, of the singularity:

Astral Codex Ten

The Sigmoids Won't Save You

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5 months ago · 405 likes · 402 comments · Scott Alexander

Think of a butterfly suspended in amber, what is it that makes it special?

It’s the time that it was frozen in. It’s the second before impact, it’s a fossil that could only ever exist in the gate between before and after.

If you are reading this, you are living in the most interesting time in human history. And that means that any art form—literary or otherwise—that cannot yet be produced by a machine, contains within a unique prehistorical value in the form of a soul that could not be duplicated from an ocean of data.

In short, the machine cannot yet clone the soul of the novelist.

We may well all be a few short years from some kind of collective death, but the artist fights strongest before their demise.

There’s an interpretation where it’s about the futility of striving in the age of AGI.

Something like this:

It seems to me that technology trends are converging toward power and wealth concentration in the form of a modern technofeudalism being the new base case.

My thoughts on that matter were recently published in .

Magazine Non Grata

You Will Not Escape the Permanent Underclass

ARX-Han is a genius. In this piece he breaks down the components of agency, meaning, and competition; then he goes onto explain what happens to each—and therefore what happens to us—when the forces of technological “progress” (what a joke) work on them…

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6 months ago · 28 likes · 1 comment · Magazine Non Grata and ARX-Han

The funniest and most optimistic outcome, of course, is that all this dooming ends up being wrong because God himself “hates these retards more than you can understand” (cf. ):

I recently reviewed ’s Scenebux (published by in .1

Read my review here. 2

1

Alternate cover:

I’ll admit to being a hater sometimes because there’s so much dog shit out there and I’m engaged in a practice of cultivation and aesthetic renewal and yes this obviously entails actively demeaning things I don’t like (by calling them “centralized” or by using some clever euphemism like that).

But, dear reader—you might be surprised to learn that the most important thing about being a professional hater is being humble.

Recently I saw some guy complaining about Andy Weir’s sci-fi slop book Project Hail Mary doing extremely well in spite of its severely reddit-fried prose and generally terrible aesthetics and it reminded me of general principle that is too often lost on us.

Slop is its own form of genius.

For the longest time I was loathe to admit this but if you really think through the extraordinary outperformance of YA slop like Harry Potter or Hunger Games it’s a little bit too easy to blame the luck factor.

The cynic’s perspective goes something like this:

1. Slop is more or less interchangeable.

2. Some combination of luck + marketing initiates a positive feedback cycle where positive attention begets more positive attention, and a book basically fooms into an exponential IP & sales success curve.

I think it is not quite right.

I think giga-slop authors are, in fact, truly special.

Not necessarily as artists but as narrative architects.

What’s actually happening, in my view, is something akin to a deep intuitive understanding of maximally-appealing narrative architectures.

If you analyze one of these books on a sentence-by-sentence level, you’ll miss the emergent metastructure of the story. Literary metastructure is the feeling that the reader gets from the work as a whole, and that is what makes it special.

The atomic subunits of this metastrucure (i.e. the sentences) are purely instrumental objects that exist to press buttons in the mind of an average person in the same way that you depress a sequence of keys on a piano. The truth is that a forest can be beautiful from a distance even if the trees are made of plastic.

Please note: it is extremely hard and functionally impossible to trigger a cascade of genuinely viral growth for a novel because the volume of books published every year is basically inconceivable. Almost definitionally, anyone capable of doing this possesses an innate kind of genius with regard to literary metastructure.

What Rowling does, for example, is some combination of immersive worldbuilding and British-elite school cosplay. Of course she’s not the first person to do this but the thing you need to understand about Rowling is the fucking Chinese hypersonic missile of Anglo-cosplay slop.

The Harry Potter series is basically a hyper-optimized anglophile status-pornography—something akin to orbital-dropping a British guy with an accent into the New York City dating scene in the late 90’s.

Hunger Games works because it’s a LARP that subconsciously convinces Americans they’re not the ones orchestrating the mass murder of poor people and children with advanced military technologies and are actually the underdogs in the meta-story of global historical geopolitics (i.e. pathological boomerism).

Twilight is the greatest vampire-fuck-fantasy that’s ever been weaponized against the 100-IQ millennial mind; it bypasses sequential layers of cog-sec with effortless limbic agility.

And all of it can be categorized as “slop",” but if making successful slop was so easy, everyone would do it!

The reality is that writers in this category essentially operate off of a kind of deep intuition about what normies want. And that intuition is sufficiently rare that we must accord it the respect that it deserves—as a legitimate form of genius.

Here’s Haruki Murakami basically calling the modal Japanese reader a slobbering retard and humble-bragging about how difficult it was for him to lower his IQ so that he could write a monster-turbo-giga-hit (which was great btw):

“Many of my readers thought that Norwegian Wood was a retreat for me, a betrayal of what my works had stood for until then. For me personally, however, it was just the opposite: it was adventure, a challenge. I had never written that kind of straight, simple story, and I wanted to test myself.”

There’s a certain type of genius that operates largely by feeling. It’s not IQ-gated in the way that truly masterful literary works are, rarther, it’s intuition-gated. The way Cesar Milan whispers to a dog is the way the midwit savant whispers to the zeitgeist.

It’s Michael Bay telling his CGI datacenter that they fucked up and it’s really too bad but the robots in Transformers need to have more moving parts and every transformation sequence needs to be about 30 minutes longer. That the robots need to have completely illegible vocal tracks in the style of Robert F. Kennedy blended with a vocoder even though it would obviously be computationally equivalent for them to speak perfect English if they were capable of that level of translation. That some of the robots need to communicate in a form of AAVE and randomly start breakdancing even though they’re literally from a planet of mechanical aliens.

I can tell you that Bay isn’t running his directorial process through a focus group. Bay has a mental model of what the people want and by god, he’s going to give it to them.

Game recognize game: Rowling has a mental model of the normie-brain stored in her skull that is so profoundly high-fidelity that she could serially prompt this bio-LLM into turning prep-school cosplay into multibillion-dollar slop machine.

J.K. Rowling lives in a mansion and I live in the Chinese- equivalent of a basement apartment.

And none of this bothers me. Because (a) I’m playing a different game, and (b) at least a human wrote it.

Where it might get weird

The progressive advancement of technocapital means that everything is being optimized.

If the economy can be modelling as a complex ring of demand-supply loops, you can also apply this model to the arts, and you can imagine a scenario where an even-more-advanced LLM ingests the context of your entire life, including data from things like non-invasive brain scans, and outputs a novel so penetrating and captivating that it subsumes the beauty of any other human produced work of literary art that you’ve ever encountered.

I call this hyper-optimized, synthetic novel the alphabetical basilisk.

If and when the machines can produce works of such great stature and beauty, my soul will die.

Until then, we live to fight another day.

I wanted to wait for it to blow over before writing about it but there’s been a lot commentary about Rucy Cui’s short story The Hatchling and the extensive communal embarrassment associated with it.

It feels like we are doomed, maybe, to repeat the same Asian-American literary discourse over and over again.

Of course, Cui is a symptom of a broader problem in the diaspora.

The problem, in my view, stems from the bowl of slop that we are all eating from. The bowl contains too many of the wrong ingredients and too few of the good ingredients. To start with, there’s a surplus of sanity, a surfeit of normality, an excess of professionalism, and all the other usual suspects that produce too much ying and too little yang1: some combination of liberal assimilationism, PMC-ification, MFA-credentialism, CV-assembly-line striving, people-pleasing, cargo-cult-transgressivism, identity-shredding, and the soul-flattening means-ends collapse of technocapital as it swallows us whole.

Rui’s story fails precisely because it represents a normal person trying to be a little bit more insane than they truly are. Every other failure is downstream of that.

Here we might have some empathy for her predicament, for the characteristic feature of modernity is the evacuation of true belief: nothing to die for and nothing to live for other than the vanity of material accumulation; a transaction of atoms for the ether of the soul.

So much of our community’s fiction boils down to stories about positional status games in the PMC-class anchored on a small and repetitive set of thematic regurgitations in the vein of ’s analysis. The analysis of white-adjacency holds in part because it’s at least directionally correct with respect to our class position if not entirely accurate due to our obvious phenotypic distinctions.

The Asian-American subject is a hollow man and a hollow woman and it is for this reason that the Asian-American writer is a hollow artist.

The God-shaped hole at the center produces an economic and cultural elite whose sole fixation to the exclusion of all other entities essentials reduces to the relentless pursuit of technocapital.

Broadly, this creates a structural problem on both ends of the patron-artist network:

• Asian-American elites are, as a class, born of technology and finance and almost universally disinterested in patronizing the arts—the very notion of someone like, say, Gary Tan, subsidizing an Asian-American literary project feels something like the punchline to a good joke. The incentive structure therefore orients around performing for the tastes of tote-bag liberalism.

• At the level of the artist, there is no core, no substrate, no energetic foundation for the Asian-American artist to draw from. His or her art rolls down, passively, to the level of the PMC-slop as a result. Real fire is nowhere to be found. We are living in an era of the complete annihilation of any semblance of belief. What good are our eyes if they are always closed?

Contrast the current crop of writers to the great Japanese modernists of the late 20th century—Osamu Dazai, Shusaku Endo, Yukio Mishima, Yuko Tsushima. All of these writers had the sauce, even if we can’t precisely pin down we think that is.

And all of these people were either a little bit insane or—alternatively—very insane.

So what’s the solution?

I’ve got one.

The central project of the contemporary Asian-American literary writer is to actively cultivate as much insanity as possible.

By “insanity,” I mean a kind of anti-rational volatility that has the potential to produce something truly great, something truly unmoored from NPR-slop and stinky-lunch slop and my-white-boyfriend-slop and my-traditional-parents-slop so that we can hit Super Saiyan 2 (or even 3) and wake up the latent psychosis of the Taiping Rebellion in the Asian-American soul.

And no, I’m not writing a Straussian article about Marxism (or even Confucianism) as the solution to our spiritual problems. Yes, it is indeed the case that every truly sovereign East-Asian country sent an army of peasants to fight the American death machine under terrifying conditions of extreme technological inferiority. There’s no romance to the blood and gore of a modern war, but martial conditions open the channel to a spiritual plane that we are manifestly no longer able to access with boba tea and matcha lattes.

What is a hopeless battle other than a form of madness?

What is the artist’s vocation other than a form of madness?

Here’s Joseph Andras on the type of soul—of a Ho Chi Minh—who is in urgent need of resurrection:2

And so, he would soon go to Moscow, to Crimea, to Hong Kong; he would be declared dead, cruise the oceans, end up in prison, write poems, and call on poets to coat their verses in steel. And then he would discuss, compose, negotiate, state that blood is only misery; reply that war will break out for a hundred years if the French state continues to ignore us, and then arrive, soft-spoken, at a resolution: let’s fight. Then he would raise an army whose black sandals are carved out of tire rubber, and he would smash the Empire.

Were you moved by this passage, anon?

It gave me shivers when I first read it.

Let me ask you a question, then.

Why did it take a white man to write it?

It used to be that I’d work my full-time job and I’d come home after the gym and instead of doing more work, or studying, or any of the other things that would’ve been objectively beneficial for the advancement of my career, I’d sit at my computer and loop some good music and work on my novel late into the evening.

And I did this for a long time.

I remember, as a consequence of this habit, feeling constantly tired, constantly burnt out, and always feeling that I lacked sufficient time for my art. My job felt like an obstacle to the thing that I wanted to be doing and my entire life felt like a series of obstacles preventing me from doing what I wanted to do—to be a writer. I felt like the constraint of nights and weekends was a set of chains holding me back from greatness.

(I was, after all, going to become the next Chuck Palahniuk, the next Bret Easton Ellis).

My experience of being a (primarily) self-taught writer was that my progress was decidedly linear over time. Successive manuscripts were hierarchically positioned above one another, and my rate of improvement continued year-over-year until I completed my first novel in 2023, some eleven-and-a-half years after I started.

Time has never not been a constraint for my personal development as an artist.

In 2014, I took a year off and lived in Southeast Asia for a couple months. I basically did nothing but work on my novel, lift weights, and walk around a lot. In addition to making some great gains, I finished my first manuscript of INCEL, which received positive feedback from my friends that sustained me for a couple more years.

It was the kind of thing I could do when I was young and it felt incredibly liberatory at the time. I’d been on NPC-rails for most of my life up until that point, and artistic freedom felt better than anything else I’d tasted before.

But I was living on debt. The clock was always going to run out.

I sometimes see this phase of my life as a road-not-taken and think about what might’ve happened had I committed myself to art full-time.

I didn’t have it in me.

Not even close.

It’s tempting here to do that Asian-American whining thing—in my culture, it’s really important to have a job—yeah, no shit, in every culture it’s important to have a fucking job!

When I really think about that moment in my life, my ultimate path came down to three overlapping factors:

1. I didn’t want to give up a certain minimum level of consumption-oriented, middle-class lifestyle.

2. This lifestyle required me to, at minimum, work a normal job and be a normie.

3. I felt like I couldn’t drop below a certain “status floor” in life, which similarly required having a job.

In economics, there’s a concept of something called the “revealed preference”—it’s the way your actions reveal your true priorities.

Roughly 2-3 years ago I read Cormac McCarthy’s Blood Meridian at the recommendation of /lit/. It’s now positioned as something of a “meme” book, but I think the denigration of this novel is largely driven by contrarian status-signaling.

It’s astonishingly well-written, neo-Biblical, magisterial prose.1

What I find equally interesting is how it compares to one of his much earlier works, Child of God.

The comparison between Blood Meridian and Child of God is stark. The sentence-level craft and complexity of the former far exceeds the latter, although McCarthy’s signature is consistent throughout.

See, the thing about McCarthy—one reason he’s so respected as a writer—is that he deserved his success.

And the reason he deserved it is not just because he was willing to put the work in, but because he was willing to put the suffering in.

I remember always being annoyed when people would tell me that they were “spiritual, but not religious.”

For me, this was always the signal of an unserious person.

You might as well say “I’m willing to believe anything so long as I don’t have to pay a price for it.”

The strength of your belief is measured in what it cost you.

The same, I think, is true of art.

Yes, McCarthy eventually made it and found his deserved success, but that does not erase the years of living in cheap motels and being so poor that you need to read books with a light bulb stored in your bag.

What right, then, do I have to complain?

I chose what I chose, did I not?

One reason I think that literary fiction is dying is because the rewards of literary greatness are so paltry relative to other narrative or creative media (film in particular). I’m not going to add to the chorus of people bemoaning the sloppification of mass culture but I am going to note that human beings—including artists—follow incentives.

We are, plausibly, caught in a kind of doom-loop whereby individuals who could become great writers can no longer sustain the multi-decade marathon of practice required to achieve said greatness.

This deficit in contemporary literary greatness furthers the shrinking of the pool of readers, minimizing the rewards even moreso.

I mourn this process as much as anyone, but I can’t help but draw from my own experience in understanding why.

The failure-mode of the aging man is his attempt to recapitulate something that belongs only to youth, without realizing that this earlier phase has definitively passed him by.

In 2023, I took another break from corpo-world and had a year-long period where I was free to write as much as I wanted, more or less. I worked enough to sustain myself on a part-time basis, and no more.

But it didn’t feel like the first time.

It felt notably worse than my first sabbatical in 2014—in fact, it felt bad, because taking a year off has a very different feeling when you’re a middle-aged man versus a young one. And I felt a kind of despair about my future that was so overpowering that I had to promptly return to normie-world so that I could once again afford to eat food at restaurants and buy new clothes without feeling guilty about it or doing arithmetic calculations in my head.

Sometimes I wish I had it in me.

Sometimes I wish I could really walk away from everything and just give it all to art.

But I’m not that person—I am a lesser man, perhaps an inferior man—and that’s okay.

There’s a particular thing that I’ve always done which I’ve heard that other novelists do too—if I find a song that I think is very beautiful, a song that evokes a particular feeling or mood, usually a kind of melancholic beauty—then I’ll listen to that song on repeat for hours at a time while I’m working on a piece of prose.

This gives me less the sensation of writing than it gives the sensation of sculpting.

A novel, to me, is like a sculpture, the substrate of which is symbolic rather than atomic. People mistake text for being “flat,” I think. It’s not really a two-dimensional thing, it’s not even three or four-dimensional. Insofar as it’s a stream of consciousness frozen in the amber of written thought, it’s as expansive as any mood or feeling or experience that can pass through your soul.

The writer, then, is the entity that shapes that form, and gifts it to others.

The classic failure mode of the literary novelist who is just starting out is the act of straining—of trying to force an emotion in a block of prose rather than letting it emerge, organically, out of the deeper conduit of a flow state connected to a truth that lives outside of yourself.

So common is this cul-de-sac that much of the formal teaching in creative writing focuses on stripping things down, on subtracting, on removing adverbs, and so on. The convergence of this trend is just the modern realist style, which of course has been critiqued endlessly on this website as being simultaneously barren and overwrought (Ocean Vuong haters rise up, etc. etc.).

But I would argue that this characteristic over-reliance on the form of austere minimalism is the symptom, rather than the source, of our literary malaise.

Our problems as writers are identical to our problems as human beings: and that problem, if I were to locate it, is that I think for many of us, we have lost our connection to beauty.

By “beauty,” I mean a kind of transcendent feeling, not necessarily spiritual—and definitely not material—maybe it’s God, maybe it’s the Dao, maybe it’s the teleological thrum of ’s cosmopsychism.

The problem with a lot of contemporary autofiction is not merely the lingering on various forms of spiritual or psychological ugliness. It’s the despair at the root of this lingering. The despair forms a kind of carapace that takes the form of irony, detachment, dissociation, and so on. Certainly there is such a thing as “dark” beauty, but more often than not, this needs to be leavened with humor for it to work (this is what makes a Houellebecq novel bearable, for instance).

I think, what I’m trying to say, is that negative affect in the literary sense has the risk of being overly repetitive. To the extent that my first book is guilty of this, that is indeed a reasonable critique, but I sense that the meta has shifted.

I think, in this new wave of accelerationism, holding onto beauty will become the current meta.

2025 was a quiet year for Decentralized Fiction. It felt solid—solid to accrue some serious, credible reviews that helped to establish me further, and it felt remarkably solid to do my first reading. I am grateful for all of these things. It’s a privilege to be read in any capacity when you’re competing against algorithmically optimized dopamine slop. Perhaps this is just the natural bifurcation in the market for eyeballs.1

I hope to start and finish a new manuscript this year. Hopefully, this one won’t take another 11 years of writing. In an ideal world, maybe I’ll have something to show you in early 2027.

Much love to all my readers here, and thank you for being here.

-Han

This year hasn’t been a great year for my own personal reading.

I’ve only read about 30 or so books, which is well short of my goal for 50 books a year. A big part of this has been an excess amount of doomscrolling geopolitics/AI twitter late into the night instead of reading.1

Anyhow, this recent bout of increased distraction got me thinking about the relationship between book length and literary success.

Among the very small cohort of notable contemporary indie literary novelists, I am only aware of two self-published writers who have achieved a meaningful volume of sales: Mike Ma and .2

The majority of my literary analysis on this blog is focused on style, authorial craziness, ideological payloads, and politico-cultural context, but I want to set all of that aside and briefly focus on the simplest possible metric for analyzing a book’s ability to gain a readership—its length.

Mike Ma’s first novel, Harassment Architecture, has over 1,000 reviews on Amazon.3

I asked an LLM to estimate its sales volume based on Amazon Best Seller Rank (ABSR) + some other data like Amazon reviews, and it estimated that this book has sold ~10,000 to 25,000 copies.

By the standards of literary fiction, that is a very large number.

It’s 147 pages long—a short, novella-scaled read.

Delicious Tacos, who is now arguably more widely known (given that Mike Ma has withdrawn from public social media), has accumulated about ~500 reviews for his debut novel:

Tacos wrote a similarly short book (162 pages) which my LLM estimates as having sold ~4,000 to 10,000 copies.

Even by the standards of the median publisher-backed literary novelist, these figures would be considered very good (or even exceptional) outcomes, and I have to wonder if book length was one of the decisive variables that made these sales figures possible.

In the counterfactual scenario, where each novel is 2-3x as long, would these books have taken off in the same way?

Obviously, word count is not a sufficient criterion for literary success, but perhaps it is an increasingly necessary one—particularly for the non-established, indie writer.

I like short books in part because I am enormously distracted by the internet and because I enjoy the satisfaction of having read a book to completion.

On the other hand, a writer should not limit his or her ambition to the attention spans of the market, and you have guys like who’ve done great with longer works as well.

That said, I’m tempted to anchor on the brevity of Houellebecq’s debut, Whatever, which clocks in at 162 (Kindle) pages:

I have a theory.

From the perspective of a reader, a novel is a significant time investment.

Relative to the plethora of narrative entertainment options that are available, it’s a big ask.

A debut novelist is asking a reader for their time and attention. In sales, it’s easier to make a smaller ask than a larger one.

I greatly enjoyed writing a medium-length novel (about ~90k words or so), but I think that the length of the book was in part a “barrier to adoption,” as the techbros like to say.

Thus, for my next novel, I intend to write something much shorter—something that’s roughly the length of Osamu Dazai’s No Longer Human, or Houellebecq’s Whatever. I’ve convinced myself that this impulse is coming out of inspiration from the 20th century Japanese modernists and not from my craven desire for increased approval and recognition.

That’s the funny thing about book sales as a writer—no matter how many you have, it’s never enough.

I’m participating in a literary salon with this coming Wednesday (next week); tickets are available here. We’re talking about Osamu Dazai’s ‘No Longer Human’ in a series about the great Japanese modernists.

I recently read a novel manuscript from another Asian-American writer that made me reconsider my own approach to writing fiction.

As I made my way through the book, which I expect will be published in approximately the next year, I found myself, at numerous points, laughing—wow, he really did go there. Goddamn, that’s impressive…

The book is, I believe, positioned to become a breakout success. It reads somewhat like Whatever, like an American Houellebecq reborn into the body of a contemporary Asian male. This is doubly impressive, because, if we are being honest, most contemporary Asian-American novelists are massive cowards (myself included, unironically). Irrespective of race, many have tried (and failed) to imitate Houellebecq, and this almost never works because it’s too easy to lose the humor evident in his writing and to over-anchor on the dourness and grimdark-modern-sexual-marketplace elements of his fiction.

With regard to my friend’s manuscript, the thing that renders it distinct from the European flavour of Houellebecq’s writing is the uniquely Asian-American voice of the character. The reason I make a comparison here is because there’s another element of Houellebecq’s writing that is almost never successfully imitated—the guy is absolutely fucking deranged.

Being French, this is something Houellebecq does seemingly effortlessly (I’m thinking, for example, of Serotonin’s many ludicrous scenes), but is actually very hard to imitate. Most writers can only fake it. The truth is that almost all of us writers are still holding on to fear; almost all of us are afraid to shout BANZAI!!! and just go full-retard, to borrow an extinct term from the millennial era.

When I say “deranged,” I mean something slightly different than the typical definition, of course, and not in a pejorative way. What I’m really talking about here, truly, is the absence of fear, but calling it “courageous” would invite the same slop-connotations we see in every blurb that claims the same—a novel that’s been traditionally published and is described as “courageous,” is, of course, almost invariably recapitulating the current-era mores of the tote-bag class.

Being deranged in this setting distills into a couple of components:

• Telling extremely difficult, painful social or psychological truths about people in our current era; and with it, a kind of general fearlessness from repercussions that maps as crazy

• Doing it with an explosive or balletic style—with a shit-eating grin on your face

• A certain magical jouissance, the writer captures “it,” where “it” is some combination of voice and mainlining an undertapped current in the zeitgeist.

In my own life, I’ve struggled at times to write as honestly as possible. Sometimes it’s because it’s too painful, but usually it’s because of fear—fear that isn’t really even rational, when, in my case, the stakes are approaching zero.

Fear for an artist is such an insidious thing. You have to almost deliberately cultivate a counterphobic response if you want to go anywhere in dealing with it.

Valorizing artistic ‘craziness,’ of course, can come with pathological manifestations. Artists romanticize drug abuse, mental illness, blow up personal relationships for narrative material—I don’t believe any of that is truly necessary to produce great art, only an uninhibited stream of honne (‘true feeling,’ “as the Japanese say”).

A book is a reflection of the author.

An author is a reflection of themselves, staring into the manuscript as if it were a mirror.

When I look at the great Japanese novelists of the 20th century—Mishima, Dazai, even Dazai’s daughter, Yūko Tsushima—all of them had a certain deranged fearlessness, not of the mortal kind, per se (two of them died by their own hand), but in the artistic sense. There was something special about them that you can only grasp from the feeling you get when you read their novels.

What was it?

What was that special, beautiful, thing that seemed to disappear after they left?

I recently had a very interesting conversation with the Bitcoin OG about censorship resistance, and felt compelled to draw up a new framework that I hope will be useful for other outsider novelists like me.

See, the funnest part of being a literary theorist is the world-building aspect. Of course, I’m using the term world-building in a tongue-in-cheek sense, since I am ultimately trying to correctly model the world on this blog—not merely trying to create some towering complex of verbal and conceptual abstractions.1

If an idea is sufficiently entertaining, it tends to be generative—i.e., people will debate “what the thing actually means.”

Let’s unpack, then, how the idea of decentralized fiction might be variously construed:

• First definition: The Press as the centralizer/decentralizer

  • Fiction that is produced outside of large, centralized, corporate conglomerates (“the big five”)2, and is instead produced by small indie-publishers or self-published works.

  • Typically, we’ve called this “indie-lit” or “alt-lit.” Smaller publishers like Expat Press or Serpent Club Press.

• Second definition: Cultural aesthetics as the centralizer/decentralizer

  • This model shifts the definition of centralization away from institutional centralization to ideological centralization.

  • Under this model, decentralized fiction is any work that escapes the functionally-centralized trend toward cultural homogeneity that is present in the space of literary fiction as a whole—regardless of whether the novel is published by Simon and Shuster vs. your typical indie press.

  • This implies a “Cathedral”-like critique of cultural production in the West: if the vast majority of indie presses are maximally leading-edge progressive in their cultural aesthetics, then they do not represent a meaningful deviation from work that would be operating under similar constraints under traditional publishing.

  • Note that this does not necessarily require an indie-press to be right-wing, but right-wing presses would definitionally be included in this category merely because they’re countercultural in the literary space (even if they’re now presently aligned with the reins of political power in the Trumpian sense). Here I’d be thinking of something like Passage Press as a notable example.3 Another key example would be , which, despite being labelled as “anti-woke” by the Rolling Stone editor who titled the recent magazine article about them, does not appear to be meaningfully engaged in politics at all.

• Third definition: Authorial identity as the centralizer/decentralizer

  • In a PvP-world, a name is no longer a mere signifier, it’s a central attack surface. It has always been the case that writing can get you into trouble, and I want to paraphrase a great tweet recently about how writing has asymmetric downside—roughly, “it’s easy to get in some degree of trouble from your writing, but it’s very hard to become the next JK Rowling.”4 A name is a database-centralizer that makes you more legible to a variety of people, including unstable, angry ones—and most concerningly, the state itself.

  • We are increasingly in a world where Western states, regardless of their leftist or rightist orientation, will severely punish speech. This is the unambiguous trendline and we’ve seen it from Democratic administrations, the Trump administration, European technocrats, European rightists, etc.

  • There are varying levels of OPSEC you can deploy here—I originally wildly overcorrected for this (no one will ever care that I exist, and I mean that in a good way), but would be an example of someone who is writing outsider fiction at the highest-level and remains highly disciplined with his pseudonymity (e.g. not even publishing on AMAZORG, which actually can be done 100% pseudonymously—it just takes a lot of effort).

  • Pseudonymity/facelessness is a form of emancipation: it simply allows you to speak more freely.

• Fourth definition: Discovery & Distribution as the centralizer/decentralizer

  • This model focused on how books are marketed and sold. Fiction that is discovered and distributed in a censorship-resistant fashion is, in my view, the most important axis of decentralization, simply because censorship-resistance is what most effectively promotes freedom of speech.

  • An extremely important caveat: centralized platforms may have relatively minimal moderation, which functionally enables an indirect form of decentralization (weird, right?). To give but one example, the pseudonymous outsider writer made his career publishing Carver-esque short stories about nihilistic modern sex on the #1 Megacorporate-Werewolf-Fuck-Fantasy reading-platform in the world (AMAZORG).

I’d note further that, undergirding all of this is effectively the First Amendment and the decentralized internet itself, without which we would all be horribly lost (and both of which are currently under active, multi-domain assault by a variety of domestic actors).5

The thing that I want to impart here is a very simple framing: every novelist must choose what constitutes an acceptable tradeoff between censorship-resistance and distribution.

Let’s look at some interesting examples of how fiction is discovered and distributed in a censorship-resistant or non-censorship resistant fashion.

Discovering fiction writers: Censorship-resistance vs. Distribution

The reality is that almost no indie fiction is discovered at any meaningful degree of scale via purely decentralized, censorship resistant platforms.

In 2023, I tried to promote my novel on Urbit after hearing Justin Murphy promote it on his podcast for years. I came to discover that Urbit was a horribly broken, shitty Discord replacement with a small number of interesting people on it (it also used to have very a beautiful landing page, but that too is now gone). The result was that I was able to give away a handful of digital copies of my novel and make contact with a couple of people who I was able to reach on other platforms anyway.

I admire the ethos behind a project like Urbit, but executing a project like this is enormously difficult. mentioned a platform like Nostr, which I’d only ever passingly heard of, but it’s a great example of the challenge here:

• Distributed, censorship resistant social networks could in theory be used for discovery of new works of literary fiction.

• Because they typically require more technical sophistication from users, they are high-friction and fail to capture network effects.

• This means that no one goes on these sites, and you can’t promote your novels there.

Well, what about a self-hosted blog? The old classic!

A self-hosted blog is, in general, good, but the discovery of blogs typically regresses to people linking to your blog on various social media platforms, which are themselves centralized platforms. This is because the independent blogosphere, which consisted of extensive cross-linking, is basically dead now (and may it Rest in Peace— has written eloquently about this).

Even Nick Land is mostly just active on Twitter and the occasional podcast, the latter of which is distributed on giant centralized platforms like Spotify anyhow!

What about the bird site?

Well, Twitter, as we all know, has been murdered for new writers courtesy of enshittification, account-throttling and link-punishment courtesy of Slop-King Elon.6

The most interesting platforms here are really Substack itself and a loose affiliation of literary podcasts, and only because the moderation on these platforms is currently very minimal. The essential advantage of Substack is the network effects from the built-in discovery function of Substack notes, recommendations, tagging other writers, etc.

Indirectly, almost all my success is attributable to this website. is right to point out its increasing significance in literary fiction.

Regardless, I remain fearful of what will happen when content moderation becomes algorithmically smarter and you can easily scale ideological policing of text with near-perfect accuracy. “We can’t practically do this” is a great excuse for platforms to have when they’re put under pressure and remains a high-friction barrier to implementing state-driven or NGO-driven speech repression.

Selling and shipping literary fiction: Censorship-resistance vs. Distribution

The elephant in the room is AMAZORG.

For all its faults, AMAZORG, due to its best-in-class logistics/Rube-Goldberg-human-suffering-delivery-fulfilment-pain-distribution system, has arguably enabled a renaissance in indie literature.

Because it’s not cost-effective to aggressively content-police the enormous volume of self-published books sold on their platform above and beyond the absolutely bare minimum level, content moderation on the platform is quite restrained.

Coupled with self-publishing as an option, this functionally enables outsider literature to flourish, particularly when someone applies artisanal effort (and non-trivial budget) to the book design & packaging (here, someone like myself or come to mind).

The problem, of course, is we simply don’t know how long this will last.

Consider alternatives like Expat Press, which do not appear to sell on AMAZORG:

I admire and respect the work of people like Manuel who, as I understand it, print and ship all their own novels with no MNC-intermediary. There’s a real artisanal craftsmanship aspect to this that I sincerely hope continues. It also allows them to print and craft the books to their own specifications and retain greater control over shipping & distribution relative to handing that power over to AMAZORG.

The problem, of course, is the friction in buying.

If someone buys a book on Amazon, even if it’s POD, it arrives very quickly and they can often buy it with a single-click or two. More importantly, readers get into the habit of buying books and everything else off of Amazon online, which even further decreases the cognitive friction of buying.

With many other online retailers, entering in your checkout information adds just enough friction that the efficiency of distribution and ease of purchasing the book dramatically reduces sales. Many book purchases occur at the psychological margin, moments after someone discovers a new writer, and impulsiveness and ease-of-buying are net-good features for the experience of the shopper.

It’s a huge problem that’s more or less inherent to human psychology.

An indie press like has gone the conventional route: distributing on AMAZORG:

Now, there’s nothing wrong with this strategy, but I worry about the hammer coming down on all of us one day. It’s hard to predict, politically, when that might happen, as it would appear to be a function of how much closer the United States ratchets toward a more authoritarian instance of red or blue control.

Lastly, there is a third-way between these two poles, a compromise approach: printing your own books and shipping them, but releasing digital-only books on AMAZORG (I’ve seen Passage Press do this for some books). It remains to be seen if this is a viable strategy or not.

Even more confusingly, censorship can happen at the level of both printers, shippers, and payment processors, which further complicates the process of distribution.

For most of you

For most outsider artists, I’d recommend the following distribution stack:

• Substack, even though it’s centralized, due to lax moderation, for discovery. In parallel, considering mirroring your blog to your own authorial website. Regularly export your e-mail list of subscribers for when the platform (eventually) becomes enshittified in xyz years.

• AMAZORG, for all its faults, for publishing. Consider also Ingram Spark, Apple Books, etc., if you’re so inclined, but only if you don’t mind the extra effort for much more marginal return. Keep the publication files forever and don’t lose them.

Lastly, regarding pseudonymity:

• This is largely a function of personal preference, risk-tolerance, and general DGAF-points. Facedoxx if you want to enjoy the NYC literary scene and can’t functionally be fired or don’t care if you lose your job. Pseudonymity if you’re a normie and just don’t want to deal with even the minor headaches of being a public-facing person with even a small amount of successful traction. In many cases pseudonymity won’t be necessary and is complete overkill (e.g. mine). Remember that it’s a spectrum, and know that here’s a tradeoff between facedoxxing & establishing yourself online vs. being “harder-to-remember” and pseudonymous—I can’t do video podcasts, for example, which would be really fun.

• If you meaningfully touch on anything political and live/work in the US (I’m not in this category), you should work in some margin of error to account for the fact that the US is trending toward increasing levels of civil conflict and internal political repression. Unless you’re specifically an immigrant writing about Palestine and the lobby is putting your name on a targeting list that is going directly to the op of the Trump administration, risk here remains low because notoriety is required for the eye of Sauron to turn on you. That said, it does feel like the general climate is turning for the worse, and it remains possible that relatively anodyne writers will one day be ruthlessly targeted by whoever is in power anyway (whether red or blue, you can’t hide from Palantir, etc.).7

My novel, INCEL, was recently featured by over at on Substack. Now, I might be slightly biased (having been featured there for a Tony Tulathimutte piece), but I have to say I’m consistently impressed by both the output and the quality over at TMR, which was founded by , and David Roberts.

There’s just an enormous amount of energy over at the mag and it’s unusual to see this quantity of writing maintain such a high level of quality given the pace at which they’re releasing these articles (for example, the reviews are consistently excellent across the board). Their pace of commissioning and production is really quite unusual for a literary publication in this category—they typically have very widely spaced out release schedules. It’s also hugely impactful for them to elevate outsider artists who are doing interesting things but are situated on the institutional margin or niche alt-lit circles, etc. New blood injected from outside traditional prestige publishing institutions is sorely needed in the literary fiction space, and TMR has a great mix of established and outsider writers in that respect.

I felt that Daniel’s review was extremely dialed in to the philosophy of the book, and I’d encourage you to check it out—I really enjoy it when a reviewer incorporates a strong sense of their own voice and style into a piece like this.1

I also recently had a great conversation with the writer , a fellow Substacker and novelist who similarly puts a great deal of effort into engaging with contemporary fiction and other writers on this platform, which you can find here.

I don’t typically do written interviews since podcasts are typically the preferred interview medium in the world of decentralized fiction, but I felt that Adam’s questions were really very thoughtful and generative when I reflected back on the process of writing the novel.

I think the most interesting question he posed was about faith and theism, which is a topic I want to explore more in future fiction that I work on. Recently I’ve been thinking about Shusaku Endo’s Silence as a model for what good theistic fiction looks like (at least in the Christian sense), and I’ve felt quite inspired by it.

This year, I’m hoping to start (and finish) a first draft of a short novella—something like the punchy, accessible length of ’s Scenebux—a sweet spot for a time-restricted wagecuck like myself living the 4-hour-life (it’s more like 2-hours, actually, but who’s counting?), but Lord knows if I’ll actually find the time for it.

You get a little bit older and there’s a guy on Instagram who’s telling you that free testosterone drops by 2-3% per year after the age of 30 and then you blink and you’ve lost 1-2 plates off your deadlift (depending on how many discs you’ve herniated) and you find yourself becoming more sentimental at a seemingly physiological level. What we might call the sentimentality of aging is really just a form of acceleration: fundamentally, it’s a function of the movement of time. Senescence is a progressive phenomenon whereby the particles of experience start streaking past you in increasingly blurry bright lines that smooth out into the rim of your peripheral vision, embracing you like a warm halo from the void.

That is to say, you realize you are slowly dying.

Not quite dying in the terminal sense, per se, but in that living-is-a-kind-of-dying sense, an incremental pruning of the various possible branches of the future that remain traversable by the increasingly broken vessel of your body.

This, in turn, breeds a kind of gratitude that is hard to grasp from the halcyon goggles of youth, meaning you appreciate everything a little bit more than you did previously.

One of my favorite memories of New York was getting day drunk on July 4th at a rooftop party in Brooklyn, passing out from trying to keep up with my childhood Russian-Jewish friend’s exceptional pace-of-drinking, and waking up a couple hours later on a bean-bag (or was it a large pillow?), rehydrating from a table of overpriced water bottles, and dancing to the sunset while Lee Burridge played some kind of trancelike house music in the background.

A decade later, I spent another beautiful night on a rooftop in Brooklyn, this time having returned to the city as a writer.

I’ve been away from the blog for a couple of months dealing with life stuff—nothing terminal, thankfully—just a compressed sequence of epiphanies unloading themselves into my brain like shockwaves crumpling various foundational moorings (“yeah im good bro haha”, etc.).

Anyway, all that is to say, I’ve been meaning to write a thank you note that’s somehow lagged behind me.

In July I participated in a 3 x 3 reading with and . Since I like to keep a low profile as a (highly marginal) pseudanon we did a no-camera thing (Matt’s clever idea!) at the Brooklyn Center for Theater Research.1 This was my first reading as a novelist and the first time I’ve attended any kind of public event under my authorial identity, and it was an absolute pleasure to do so. I’m extremely appreciative to both of these guys for letting me share the stage with them given my status as a relative outsider.

I understand now—with much greater, experiential clarity—the benefit of connection, community, and physicality in the world of literary fiction. It’s become such a small, marginal past-time—one that will plausibly die off with with this final cohort of millennial wordcels—that the energetic boost of physical communion feels necessary to keep the flame alive.

Relative to the digital distance of writing and speaking over the internet, I felt a sense of connection with the other attendees that both surprised and moved me. Probably this is because I’m not conditioned to being around other writers (or even readers) in my daily life. Where I live, I sometimes feel like I’m the only person I know who still reads novels, and having a group of like-minded people cohere into a single evening felt very special.

Meeting people who’d deeply connected with my novel—G, for example—is something I’ll deeply treasure for a very long time. Sincerity, I think, is very important to me, particularly in my writing, and it’s these moments of gratitude that sometimes keep me going when I feel like giving up outright and throwing in the towel on writing altogether.

For someone coming from the outside—I never studied creative writing in college, I never did an MFA, I never had friends who were writers (until relatively recently), I never even knew anyone who had written anything professionally—sufficed to say, it was an important personal milestone, and one I’m extremely grateful for.

It was nice, also, to connect with other people from Substack and various friends from New York. It’s always a pleasure to chat with about our experiences as Asian-American writers trying to distinguish ourselves from our peers (as an aside, I’d suggest that everyone keep an eye out for him, as I truly believe he’ll break out in a massive way within the next year or so). also made an appearance at the reading—who, in addition to writing extremely thoughtful and thoroughly researched book reviews, is an absolute unit of a human being who looks like he deadlifts about 500 pounds (possibly more). was kind enough to review my novel on Goodreads and I found his MFA journey to be very interesting (like me, he also has an interest in the convergence of philosophy and fiction). I briefly ran into , who I hope to see more of, particularly as continues its rapid ascent and blistering pace of quality (check out his novel Glass Century, which I wrote about recently). I also enjoyed chatting with , whose novel was recently reviewed in TMR. To cap it off, I learned about some exciting new projects that have recently gotten off the ground—’s , and , a new magazine from and Matt Gasda.

The bottom line is that even for literary anons, network effects matter and geography matters. The density of talent in NYC when it comes to novel-writing really is important, and even for other faceless avatars like me, I’d strongly encourage you to attend some events in the city just to absorb the energy from your peers.

Thank you to everyone who came to the event, and thank you to Matt for giving me a platform to share my novel with the good people of New York.

It was an immense privilege, and I look forward to coming back again.

Whenever I return home to visit the US, I make it a point to drop in as many bookstores as I can. I enjoy the process of following the literary discourse online, but the digital avant-garde takes time to bleed into the physical world.

Like a weather vane pointing in a particular direction, a physical bookstore is a lagging indicator, snapping to alignment with the zeitgeist by way of its literary presentation.

Both in large chain bookstores and small independents, these shelves of recommendations represent a safe consensus, with the placement and emphasis of their various novels-for-sale signaling some combination of cultural and commercial incentives—status rewards and monetary rewards, respectively.

I haven’t yet detected any discernible change in the orientation of these physical signals, but I think something significant is happening in the world of letters.

Rather than call this a “vibe shift,” let’s try to be more precise with our descriptors: we are currently—thanks largely to Substack—in the middle of a shift in the Aesthetic Overton Window in the world of letters.

The beatings will continue until Vuong improves

Ocean Vuong is getting a lot of criticism these days, but it’s not in the context of anything like a literary cancellation.

Rather, Vuong is being criticized for aesthetic reasons.

(For a great piece on this, I suggest Sam Kahn’s latest).

Rather than frame these critiques as critiques of wokeness qua wokeness, I think something more fundamental is happening.

I think, in part, we are living through a crisis of Liberalism that is being triggered by the unraveling of the central moral legitimating narratives of the global American empire.

My view is that these two things are inextricably connected and essentially continuous with one another.

As one comes apart, so too does the other.

This unraveling is a manifold, complex event driven by several interlocking trends in finance, trade, geopolitics, and most importantly in political meta-narratives. This collapse in narrative management is driven by all kinds of factors, but the US-backed genocide of Gaza and the extraordinarily systematic depth of the Epstein scandal stand out as two central forces.

I’m starting to feel that the cognitive dissonance these two events trigger for American exceptionalism among leftist and rightist camps threatens the foundational structure of Liberalism itself.

If the Purpose of a System is What It Does, then elite American institutions are demonstrably optimized for the feeding of two serpentine entities: Blood for the Blood God, and Cum for the Cum God.

If human rights are the North Star of the Liberal project, then why are we moving heaven and earth to help our Most-Favored-Ethnostate liquidate tens of thousands, hundreds of thousands of children?

What does democracy mean if you can’t even functionally vote to stop a genocide? What do laws mean when the government doesn’t even bother to wipe the metadata from the security camera footage outside of Epstein’s cell?

Do you understand that they’re laughing at you?

What kind of moral authority could possibly reside behind a podium with the seal of a state that does all of these things and yet still claims moral leadership over the entire planet?

Is it just me, or do you feel like you’re going insane?

I think it’s in light of this crisis that all kinds of narrative threads are snapping, suddenly and violently.

I think, on some level, people are getting this now.

The problem with Vuong, in my view, was not really his overwrought aestheticism.

It was always that he didn’t go far enough.

If you want to understand the Vietnam War, I don’t think you’ll find it in Vuong’s poetry. You’ll find it in Nick Turse’s Kill Everything That Moves and you’ll understand the level of the atrocity, and then you’ll wonder how Liberalism ever survived the act of torching millions of people alive.1

Maybe it’s because they couldn’t record their bodies burning on smartphones.

Don’t try to persuade me of the truth—show me that you know it to be true

Back to the bookstores, where we are reaching a saturation threshold for repetitive visual fatigue. The sameness even extends into the bland, repetitive designs of the covers themselves: bleached with the same bright pastels and self-important minimalist typography.

I’m going to propose a hypothesis that combines my prior critiques to those of David Herod at : the problem with moral didacticism in literature is not the moral epistemology itself, but the lack of conviction in it, which requires the writer to contaminate his story with a form of persuasion.

(who is being persuaded? why—the writer themselves, of course!)

While there is certainly a craft and aesthetic beauty to many of these works, the career of the modal elite fiction writer in this generation might be better modeled as the behavior of a 'moral entrepreneur' rather than an artist outright.

Is the purpose of a novel to tell a story or is the purpose of a novel to convey a moral lesson?

More importantly—are we, as citizens of the global American imperium—in any sort of position to impart moral lessons?

To ask the question is to answer it with our own deep-seated intuitions: any story that tries to hard to persuade its reader has compromised itself. More often than not, novels that lean too hard into alignment with leading edge secular progressive morality fall into this trap: the trap of contaminating the aesthetic object of the narrative with that of literary persuasion.

The consequences of this regime of aesthetic homogeneity have been severe.

The form of literary fiction has the problem of dual-decline. As the masses slip into the dopamine slavery of hyper-optimized consumer smartphone apps, the world of letters increasingly falls under the domain of our cultural elites—elites who are generally more sensitive to the homogenizing forces of this aforementioned culture of purity.

The effect is to compound the decline of an already declining art form, subverting any possibility of rejuvenation and regeneration.

As easy as it would be to levy a conservative critique and pin the blame on "woke-ism," the current dominant paradigm of secular progressive morality is only one instance of a general and even more fundamental facet of human psychology.

There are multiple reasons for this, but let us discuss only one.

World-models and the implicit world-building of the literary novel

The core problem with turning a novel into a parable about woke-ism or any other ideological system is that the "moral lesson" embedded in the text grows beyond the natural boundaries of an organic literary theme. In so doing, it hypertrophies beyond the dimensions of its natural shape and placement within a narrative, exerting a "reality distortion field" that warps any sense of narrative verisimilitude.

Let me explain.

Insofar as a novel must present a coherent setting, it must also present a literary world model.

A “world model” is simply that which its name implies—a model of the world. When a narrative is pulled into the gravity of an overbearing ideological framework, the world models gets distorted: inconvenient facts, characters, and human flaws get flattened and shorn off, flattening the complexity of the world model and widening the gap between the complexity of real life and the *representation* of 'real life' in the novel.

In a sense, this is the job of the sensitivity reader: the identify and amputate any narrative violations that exist in a pre-publication novel. If features of the literary world model conflict with the ideologically-charged world model of leading-edge secular progressive morality, they are cut out entirely.

I think things are slowly getting better now.

It used to be that racial minorities could only be depicted in the strictest possible terms, with their narrative presentation serially gate-kept by a sequence of editorial chokepoints that sifted out any deviation from the proper presentation of that layer of the intersectional stack. A book like ’s Victim couldn’t get published at the peak of this trend.

Reality, then, is a more complicated thing than tribalism seeks to admit.

Art inherently resists instrumentalization. There is a tradeoff between the degree to which a narrative acts as an instrumental tool for persuasion and the degree to which it exists for its own sake, as an end unto itself (e.g. propaganda has less artistic merit). 

Where do we go from here?

Literary fiction, like other art forms, progress through waves of trends. By definition, any current trend is temporally limited. If we consider the zeitgeist as a form of collective consciousness, we can broadly intuit its shape and directionality. Like any sort of natural rhythm that ultimately finds it tether in biology (i.e., in the human animal), literature progresses through alternating cycles of rising and falling (we might call this ‘Kali-Yuga-Wordcel-Theory').

The salient question—now that we have fallen—is how we might rise.

Many artists are counterculturally-inclined, so one potential result would be for "anti-woke" literary fiction to become the new trend.

The problem is that this is not a solution: my experience has been that explicitly coded "anti-woke" narratives—whatever their form—tend to be terrible.

(By the way, I think writers like Adem Luz Rienspects or being pinned as “anti-woke” in a recent editorial headline is largely inaccurate, although I understand why Rolling Stone needed a headline like that drive clicks)

The problem with the culture war vis-a-vis art is not that these topics aren't salient or that they don't relate to important questions of morality and human values, but that instrumentalizing literary fiction to the role of a military unit in the culture war mistakes the purpose of the novel altogether.

In philosophy, this is referred to as a “category mistake”— erroneously placing one thing (persuasion) into the category of another (narrative). Regardless of the ideological content, this is a form of contamination. Ayn Rand's books may be best-sellers, but it's not because they are good stories—rather, they are compelling forms of propaganda.

What we need is to reintroduce chaos, jouissance, and moral complexity to literary fiction—to reduce the 'ideological quotient' of the art form as opposed to merely changing its valence.

A truly generative paradigm shift is not merely a reaction to the existing paradigm, but an orthogonal move away from the paradigm altogether. 

The cynical counterargument is that such a move constitutes a form of moral evasion and a refusal to articulate any notion of human values in a literary work.

Herein lies another error: I'm not in favor of completely abdicating any attempts at moral discourse in the novel, but I am for permitting a greater degree of general openness: an openness to infusing moral complexity, ambiguity, and ideological contradiction back into the top-tiers of literary fiction.

And most importantly, if you believe something to be true, you should know it to be true, and that knowingness should organically emerge in the world model of reality you’re building there.2

We can imagine this as a kind of freedom: a freedom to weave these threads of contradiction and mirror the stubborn messiness of the world as it presents itself to us.

Chaos is the thing that is missing from our over-credentialized, overly-academic literary elites.

I’m a coward—true—but I’m not wrong in my diagnosis.

We need more Mishimas, I think. We need artists who are ready to burn their lives down.

Whether we find it in a flock of birds or the rippling surface of the ocean, it is chaos that connects us to “white hot center” of our emotional selves as writers. Herein comes a narrative spooling out of your chest without the hyper-analytical sequence of purity tests acting as an immediate censor of what is being born, cutting the cord to the energy connecting you to your own work.

I do not and have not ever believed in notions of permanent literary decline. A new wave of fiction is emerging: writers who are not directly concerned with constructing a didactic “woke/anti-woke” normative moral framing, choosing instead to bypass it altogether.

By virtue of this disregard, their works fail to land cleanly on one category or the other, organically accumulating contradictions as these manuscripts grow and mature over time.

This is the syncretic beauty of nature: of its manifold layers of fractal contradictions.

It is only right that we do it justice with words.