I think that a couple of hundred years from now, there will be classics praised that hailed from this era. It seems quite possible that, say, Harry Potter will be one of the things remembered for a long time to come. Pippi Longstockings? Anybody know that Astrid Lindgren was Swedish?
There are still great things produced, the main problem is, I think, that nowadays it’s far easier to get your things into the world - which means that all the good stuff has to do elbow warfare with all the bad and so-so stuff.
As for American culture, I think it’s too much of a mish-mash of various cultures to have any grand thing in common. But from studying literature I CAN say that something that will always define you people is the whole “search for self/displacement” issue. I swear, it is everywhere. Along with rape (sometimes of cows, thank you Toni Morrison for telling me about that FOUR TIMES IN TWO CHAPTERS), murder, slavery… can’t a story be a modern classic without involving a guy having his genitals hacked off? -_-;; Seriously.
The whole “where do I belong? Why am I in this place which I don’t feel right in?” question seems to be a red thread spun through all American literature, from the journals of John Smith (which he wrote years after the events transpired, when he was back and safe in England and could look back on only the things he wanted to be remembered for
Yeah, tie your very much alive guide to your arm and use him as a shield when the Indians attack. MY HERO!) and onwards. <I>Light in August</I> is a prime example.
Of course, this is something that’s pretty universal in today’s society. The search for a place, I mean. Not hacking off body parts of people. What I mean is that it seems to have always been there in the American literature. Looking at classics from other places, it’s not so much of a theme (disregarding things like <I>Heart of Darkness</I>). Look at…
<I>King Oidipus</I>, Sofokles (400’s BC), Greece. “I’m the king of this place and some prophecy said I’d kill my dad. Obviously I didn’t, he died of natural causes! Whaddaya mean I was adopted? Yeah, the guy at the crossroad that I killed, the last king? … aw shit. 'Scuse me while I stab my eyes through.”
<I>Journey to the West</I>, based on Chinese legends from who knows when, (written down in the 1500’s), China (duh). Tripitaka may fall down and start crying and whining whenever something goes wrong, but he never questions why he has to spend several years going through China to India, all the while assaulted by demons who want to eat him, and being insulted by his disciples.
<I>Whatever by Jane Austen</I> (late 1700s-early 1800s), England. You’ll never see <I>any</I> of her characters wonder about who they are and what they’re doing.
<I>Things Fall Apart</I>, Chinua Achebe (1958), Nigeria. The main character Okonkwo lives in an African village just before and during the first time of the arrival of the white people. He’s perfectly at ease with his place in the world and when things start “falling apart” he never hesitates on what to do about it.
Okay, I’m just grazing the tip of the literary canon here, but my point stands. I’ve read a lot of American ‘classics’ lately, both prose and poetry, and you can never escape the feel of alienation.
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I guess I can just blame the fact that we’ve been focused on novels past Emily Dickinsson.
And ah, yes, I do like studying literature, immensely even. It simply fails to never give me reason to get sarcastic about it.