And all the best women are married
All the handsome men are gay – Robbie Williams, Supreme
All the great writers are dead. What was to be said, was said. What was to be written, was written over and over again. There are no new stories, nothing to innovate, nothing new to bring to the table. There’s nothing left to be imagined into existence.
There are simply no more words in any language of the world to create something new.
We might as well give up and get normal jobs.
The are no more blocks to add to the great pyramid of literature. The titans have finished building it. Future generations can be fed solely by what the Russian wrote during the 19th century. Or by what all the Great American Novels written during the 20th century.
Latin American writers of the eighties are enough food for the soul that you don’t need to ever read any other kind of literature.
But is it like that? Have we lost our meaning because we elevated the departed to the status of gods?
There’s nothing new to write about, yet we still try. We try and try and try because we never know what we might find.
And this has always been the destiny of men.