Month: February 2026

  • The Retreat from Excellence: How Postmodern Relativism Undermined Literary Standards

    The Retreat from Excellence: How Postmodern Relativism Undermined Literary Standards

    When a culture abandons the pursuit of objective excellence, it doesn’t simply become more inclusive of wider ranges of thinkingโ€”it becomes incapable of discernment.

    Over the past three decades, we’ve witnessed a striking decline in literary quality (I don’t think this is terribly controversial–there are many indicators). I submit that this decline correlates directly with the ascendancy of postmodern thinking in academia and publishing. The culprit isn’t difficult to identify: when “good is merely a perspective” driven by an esoteric “System of Thought” becomes the operative philosophy, the distinction between mediocrity and mastery dissolves.

    The Death of Standards

    The postmodern project, at its core, represents a philosophical surrender. Rather than wrestle with the philosophical inconsistencies in Naturalism, then Realism, then Modernism, the postmodernists decided that solving these problems was impossible because truth itself was merely projected by dominant Systems of Thought. This was a pretentious error.

    By denying that there can be such a thing as “true good” in art, postmodernism hasn’t liberated us at all from oppressive standardsโ€”rather, it has left us defenseless against the tide of trivial and insupportable newly-born standards. When every text is merely another perspective, when every voice carries equal weight regardless of craft or vision, the result is predictable: the market floods with work that previous generations would have recognized immediately as unserious. Walk into any major bookstore today and survey the literary fiction section. You’ll find novels praised to the heavens by prestigious review outlets that lack basic narrative coherence, that substitute cleverness for wisdom, that mistake the transgressive for the profound. This isn’t an accident of taste. It’s the logical outcome of a system that has lost the vocabularyโ€”and the courageโ€”to say that some work is simply better than other work.

    Academia’s Capitulation

    The academy, which once served as a guardian of literary standards, has become their primary subverter. English departments that once trained students to recognize excellence now teach them to deconstruct it. Now a literary PhD dissertation can be generated by an AI, and it is happening all over.

    Close readingโ€”that patient attention to how language achieves its effectsโ€”has given way to reading for power dynamics, for representations of identity, for the political implications of competing Systems of Thought. These approaches aren’t completely without value, but when they become the dominant approaches, literature ceases to be evaluated as literature. At that point, it becomes far easier to deconstruct the physical words on a page into representations that reflect whatever system the professional academic rewards. I’ve been occasionally surprised on the literary side of X to find academics who have creatively deconstructed religious works into polemics about post-industrial society and other fashionable concerns. The result? Entire generations of writers emerge from MFA programs unable to distinguish between craft and ideology, between a sentence that sings and one that merely signals. They’ve been taught that traditional notions of beauty, structure, and moral seriousness are suspectโ€”tools of cultural hegemony rather than hard-won insights into what makes language live on the page.

    Publishing’s Moral Vacancy

    The publishing industry, always responsive to cultural currents, has enthusiastically embraced the postmodern turn. Editors who might once have rejected a manuscript for technical deficiencies now celebrate those same deficiencies as formally innovative. Marketing departments that once sought to identify lasting work now scramble to ride waves of social media enthusiasm, no matter how shallow. Consider how contemporary publishing determines what’s worthy of publication. Increasingly, the question isn’t “Is this excellent?” but “Does this fill a slot in our diversity portfolio?” or “Will this generate the right kind of attention on Twitter?” These aren’t questions about literary merit. They’re questions about market positioning and cultural opticsโ€”and while both have their place in business decisions, when they crowd out questions of quality entirely, literature suffers. When there is no gate on the process for quality and excellenceโ€”even in the absence of political biasโ€”the bottom line becomes the only motivator.

    The Evidence Is in the Reading

    The proof of this decline doesn’t require theoretical argumentationโ€”it requires only that we read. Pick up a celebrated novel from 2020 and set it beside one from 1950. The difference in linguistic precision, in structural sophistication, in moral and intellectual seriousness is often startling. This isn’t nostalgia speaking. It’s the recognition that when a culture ceases to believe in excellence, it ceases to produce it. The postmodern response to this observation is predictable: “You’re merely privileging one aesthetic over another. Who are you to say Hemingway is better than [insert trendy contemporary author]?” But this response itself reveals the problem. It treats evaluation as an arbitrary exercise in power rather than a learned skill requiring attention, knowledge, and intellectual humility. It assumes that because perfect objectivity is impossible, all judgments are equally subjectiveโ€”a logical leap that would be laughable in any other field.

    Recently, I was discussing books with an adult reading enthusiast who had discovered a new passion for H. Rider Haggard. His books are exciting “lost world” adventures written during the late 1800s, and the writing was considered accessible to young children of that era. My friend was surprised that young boys were drawn to these books in the past, because even the average adult reader would find the writing challenging today. There are scores of examples like this of what we have lost by losing our way regarding excellence in literature.

    What We’ve Lost

    When we abandon the pursuit of objective literary standards, we lose more than just the ability to distinguish good books from bad ones. We lose the cultural infrastructure that allowed great writers to develop. George Eliot, Tolstoy, Dostoevskyโ€”these writers emerged in cultures that, whatever their other failings, took literature seriously as a vehicle for truth. They wrote for audiences that expected not just to be entertained or validated, but to be challenged, elevated, transformed. Today’s literary culture, by contrast, often seems content with books that function as mere mirrorsโ€”reflecting readers’ existing beliefs back to them, confirming what they already think about the world. This isn’t literature’s highest calling. It’s literature’s unflinching surrender.

    The Way Forward

    The path forward requires recovering what postmodernism has taught us to abandon: the courage to discriminate between truth and falsehood, the willingness to say that some work achieves what other work only attempts. This doesn’t mean returning to a narrow canon or dismissing new voices, but rather means insisting that new voices, like old ones, be held to standards of excellence rather than given passes based on novelty or identity. Editors should be willing to reject manuscripts that fail to meet high literary standards, regardless of their political or cultural appeal. Critics need to be willing to write honest reviews rather than promotional copy. It means readers willing to demand more than what’s merely current or trendy. Most importantly, it means recovering the belief that drove the greatest writers of the past: that literature matters precisely because it can access truth, beauty, and moral wisdomโ€”not perfectly, not infallibly, but genuinely.

    When we believe there’s a “true good” worth pursuing in art, we create the conditions for excellence. When we don’t, we get what we have now: a literary landscape cluttered with forgettable cash generators, while genuine talent goes unrecognized because we’ve lost the language to recognize it. The decline of contemporary literature isn’t a mystery. It’s the inevitable result of ideas taken to their logical conclusion. Postmodernism promised liberation from the struggle to define truth and beauty; it delivered mediocrity. The question is whether we have the cultural courage to admit it.

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  • Marce Catlett: The Force of a Story by Wendell Berry

    Marce Catlett: The Force of a Story by Wendell Berry

    As a sympathetic agrarian with roots in a place very much like Wendell Berry’s beloved Port William, Kentucky, I am always quick to buy his latest work to hit the market. Pretty much all of my adult life has been spent with characters like Burley Coulter, Jayber Crow, Hannah Coulter, and Andy Catlett. They remind me of generations of my own people, often to a surprising degree. In a sense, Berry’s town has become real to me in a way no other fictional place ever has, even Faulkner’s Yoknapatawpha County. Not only does Port William exist in my thoughts and memories, I often feel longing for what has been lost there.

    A Story of Memory and Loss

    Berry’s latest novel, Marce Catlett: The Force of a Story, reinforces my sense of loss of the past because Berry spends much time dwelling in that place. The story is about his frequent narrator, Andy Catlett, reminiscing over his grandfather Marce, who managed his family farm behind a brace of mules and a plow. The action starts with a distant event when the tobacco buyers monopoly, the American Tobacco Company, uses their leverage to essentially rob Marce of a full year of laborโ€”not just any labor, but one that was needed to provide a source of scarce income that could augment what the farm itself could offer to Marce’s family.

    Andy only knew of this sad story from hearsay, and admits:

    So Marce remembered it to Wheeler, who told it to Andy, who in a world radically changed needed a long time and great care to imagine what he heard, but as he has imagined it he has passed it on to his children, for the story has been, as it is still, a force and a light in their place. (p. 17)

    The Cost of Progress

    One of the familiar complaints made by Berry is that progress in the form of tractors, automobiles, and cross-national linkages of trains changed outcomes for ordinary families who made lives from the soil. Marce sums up his beliefs about progress in describing his journey to Louisville on a train as only a man who was a master of his own work and place could:

    They felt in their flesh the ruled line by which the railroad had pierced the living country, subduing its ancient contours to levels and slants and bends required by the machines that ever after would hurry regardlessly across it. (p. 19)

    The Black Sheep and the Beloved Past

    One well-worn thread through Berry’s booksโ€”especially the ones with Andy Catlett as narratorโ€”is that of the “black sheep” that occasionally rose up in these families and found their way in the community. In Andy’s case, this beloved person was his uncle, an attractive rebel of sorts who always wound up involved in schemes and activities that embarrassed those who loved him. As Andy described his Uncle Andrew, “He was instead one in the sequence of feral offshoots that fairly regularly had dissented from it. He was not an outcast, because he had never been cast out.” (p. 57)

    In this book, and indeed in many where Andy is the narrator, he is looking back on the past through an old man’s eyes. He recognizes that life has blessed him and that when younger he took it for granted. About this life, he notes that “He did not know how old it was or what it was worth or how threatened it had come to be. He did not begin consciously to honor and love it until he saw it going away.” (p. 68)

    Eventually, after a successful period in the “big agriculture” world outside Port William, Andy returns home and regards the life his grandfather lived as his own native culture, one “shared and practiced in common by all the kinds and races of the country people, a possession of incalculable worth.” (p. 68)

    A Hybrid Work

    There is nothing surprising in this book for a fan of Wendell Berry. What is unique, however, is the mating of Berry’s agrarian thought with the story of one of his characters. This makes this novel a halfway creation between Berry’s fiction and nonfiction writing. It isn’t as captivating as, say, his story-driven novel Hannah Coulter, but it contains much deep thought that the reader who avoids nonfiction might be surprised to learn.

    The sadness around the demise of places with history born in love like Port William is palpable. Berry sagely notes that “Port William’s fatal mistake was its failure to value itself at the rate of its affection for itself.” (p. 110) He continues to describe that rather, the town had believed the values imputed on their small place by outsiders who saw progress as a 180-degree path away from the Port Williams of the world.

    Who Is My Neighbor?

    In the Bible, a lawyer asks a question of Jesus that is logical for one who lives in an elevated place in a community: “And who is my neighbor?” Jesus takes the chance to show the lawyer the extent of his disconnectedness from life and love. In all of Wendell Berry’s books, this question whispers throughout the stories.

    In Marce Catlett, we get a very clear declaration:

    In stable and lasting communities, people become neighbors to one another because they need one another. The American story so farโ€”which has been so far the Catletts’ story, which they have both suffered and resistedโ€”has been the fairly continuous overpowering of the instinctive desire for settling and homemaking by the forces of unsettling: the westward movement, land greed, money hunger, false economy. The industrial replacement of neighborhood by competition and technology moves everything worthy of love out of reach. (p. 112)

    A Vision of the Beautiful Land

    Near the close, Andy’s memories of community, family, and neighbors have connected and are now one recollection:

    His remembering and his thoughts have carried him by now far outside the matter of fact of this world’s present age. He stands now with his father and his father’s father, and with others dear to them, in the presence of a longed-for beautiful land that they have desired as if seen afar, that yet is the same, the very land that they have known and that they know, a love-made land, dark to them until by their own love they came to see it. (p. 144)

    The reader is left uncomfortably wondering if in our new age of progress, this ascendancy of life is any longer possible.


    Marce Catlett: The Force of a Story is a meditation on memory, community, and the cost of what we call progressโ€”essential reading for those who long for something beyond efficiency and growth.

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  • A Solar System Built on Magic: Michael F. Kane’s “After Moses”

    A Solar System Built on Magic: Michael F. Kane’s “After Moses”

    Frank Herbert’s Dune series is famous for its intricate world-building. Herbert meticulously explains the systems, methods, and politics that allow humanity to expand across the universe. He answers every question about plausibility before readers can ask it.

    Michael F. Kane takes a different approach in his series beginning with After Mosesโ€”and it’s refreshing.

    Kane clearly draws inspiration from Herbert. His chapters open with quotes from historical figures within his universe, and his stories unfold across a colonized solar system. But instead of exhaustive explanations, Kane uses a brilliant narrative shortcut: an AI named Moses once arose, solved humanity’s greatest challenges, and then vanished without a trace. Hence the titleโ€”everything happens “After Moses.”

    This device liberates Kane’s storytelling. How do humans live on Ganymede? Moses invented gravity plates and environmental barriers. It’s reminiscent of Gabriel Garcรญa Mรกrquez’s magical realismโ€”the extraordinary simply exists, everyone accepts it, and life continues.

    With technology explained away, Kane focuses on what matters most: character development.

    Each chapter tells a self-contained story where characters face captivating challenges. The situations often seem dire, yet Kane’s light touch keeps readers from feeling overwhelmed. You trust these characters are equal to their trials. As the chapters accumulate, a larger narrative emerges, revealing the characters’ backstories and interconnections. And always, the central mystery lingers: Who was Moses, and what happened to him?

    Kane’s writing style will feel familiar to fans of Douglas Adams’ Hitchhiker’s Guide series. He has that same gift for witty banter and knows how to make you smile while telling a serious story. I found it thoroughly enjoyable.

    If you’re searching for a new sci-fi authorโ€”especially one who writes honest stories about characters overcoming struggles with moral integrityโ€”visit michaelfkane.com to purchase the series. Kane is an independent author well worth discovering.

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