Nor the slightly-less-old (but still pretty old) waiting for the crying of lot 49 (in Pynchon’s novel, the crying of lot 49 stands for the next clue provided by Fate, i.e. But it’s also not quite like the old nihilistic waiting for Godot either. But recently I stumbled upon a postmodern detective novel that’s not quite like your usual detective novel. Anyway, when it comes to literature, the well-exposed readers of today have long grown weary of such pomo ploys of empty pastiche, carnivalism, etc. I admit it’s sometimes liberating and exhilarating, but too many shop assistants just don’t know what they’re doing. Marvel films are chockfull now of tongue-in-cheek jokes, which pop up at all the wrong, supposedly dramatic moments because people are so afraid that feelings are cliché in malls, loudspeakers blast covers and remixes more than original songs, and mannequins are decked out in what seems like a mess of random stuff thrown together. When you see postmodernism in Hollywood and on H&M mannequins, you know it’s getting old.
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