End of the Endless Summer

EVE BABITZ RETURNED WHEN WE NEEDED HER MOST: in the late 2010s and early 2020s, when the pressures created by a rapidly shrinking media industry, a diminished appetite for literary fiction, and an ascendant social media panopticon made for a dismal, paranoid atmosphere in the world of letters. The most acclaimed novels of the period were chilly and self-interrogating; they made the act of writing seem like something to be vaguely ashamed of. The dominant tone in literary nonfiction was a mix of indignant hectoring and handwringing solipsism. Neuroticism and uncertainty ruled the day. Is it okay to get on an airplane in the age of climate change? Am I adequately reckoning with my privilege when I eat this Sweetgreen salad? Is it suspect to enjoy Tolstoy or Picasso or Phil Spector or any of history’s other monster-geniuses? Am I saved or damned? Am I a Good Person?