Preface: I know this sounds extremely crotchety, but I can't help myself, dangnabit. I'm convinced that, as time goes on, our artistic standards are dropping faster and faster. Soon, they'll hit some point where art and everyday life are pretty much indistinguishable, and Damien Hirst will be counting his billions and laughing.
Point 1: Painting, which has devolved from the works of the Old Masters to...modern art. And while some modern art is good, I think I can safely say that most modern art is eye-gougingly terrible. But more on that later.
Point 2: The popularity of "mini-lit," bite-sized books, articles, and other sorts of literary miscellania. And by "bite-sized," I mean "shorter than what you find on the back of a box of Frosted Flakes." This article mentions "six-word memoirs, four-word film reviews, [and] twelve-word novels."
Hell, I could do that! OK, here's my autobiography:
"Born in New Jersey, died on stage in Vegas."
I'm getting a bit ahead of myself, but I'm going to chalk it up to artistic license.
And now here's my new novel:
"The door crashed open and out came a monstrous hybrid of Hitler and a praying mantis."
Thrilling! I think I might have found a career, assuming my dream job of garbage collector doesn't pan out.
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