This isn’t an attack on John Pistelli, whose work in general I respect. But the topic of white male novelists and representation in literature is so tiresome, so played out, past its prime, I’d gladly guide it into a suicide pod. But until then, I suppose it gives me yet another chance to rehearse a few points. Art has been declared dead; that means it’s both marginal and ubiquitous to the point of vapidity. High end literature, specifically, isn’t worth much on the market, and doesn...
