I suppose it’s healthier that we reflect our angst in our literature rather than repressing it and pretending all is well. I’m not sure about all of the trends, though. Our plunge into pessimism is mirrored by a plunge into the four-letter morass of bodily excretion in all its forms. Words that appeared in mainstream writing only for a bit of spice are now as common as allergies in the spring.

Along with the old four letter words, casual sex proliferates. In our work-a-day world, such casual sex now is common, along with obesity, possibly not a coincidence. Ours is not an age known for self-discipline.

I began reading one of our postmodern novels for a book club and found myself skimming along, just to understand enough of the plot for discussion. It wasn’t just the language. The protagonists were about as attractive as piranhas, mirroring, I suppose, our disillusion with cardboard heroes and heroines. Surely, fiction can be realistic without deleting all hope?

What came at me was not so much the words as the anger. I don’t mean anger at obvious wrong. This anger seemed to come from lack of purpose.

Maybe that’s the foundation for much of our current writing: unresolved anger. We are geared to find purpose and meaning. When we find that the objects we pursue only for pleasure turn out to be meaningless, anger overwhelms us.