The literary arts seem more today than ever before wracked with anxiety.  By anxiety, I mean in a state of terror without object.  A fear that there is something to fear.  Everywhere the future of literature seems uncertain, its coming death all but declared.  The writer, the devoted reader, the publisher, the journalist, the teacher, the professor, in a vague, generalized way feel that something is happening to literary culture.  Though should one try to pinpoint the source or find definitive proof of this anxiety, one will most surely find competing evidence that will immediately disprove whatever was once proven.

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