Reposting:
First Manifesto of Neo-Decadence
by Brendan Connell
1. Words are only words, a somewhat artificial simulation of nature, and should not be given too much importance. Slick writing should be tossed out like men with sweaty hands, mass-produced objects, and food in Styrofoam cups.
2. Never imitate yourself. The writing should be artificial and shallow, without contrived emotions. Then maybe something will be realised. There is already enough sadness in life. Soak the book in gasoline if it must be soaked in something.
3. Character development is synthetic. It should be resorted to only with a certain amount of shame.
4. If it be political let it lurch to the left, burrow underground so that tall buildings tumble off their hinges.
5. Story arcs should only be used to hang oneself with. Nothing is ever resolved. Nothing progresses.
6. Syntax should be dredged out of old books, trimmed off of far-away planets, stripped from dreams. Trivial things should be said in a grandiose manner meant to disgust collegiate scribblers and make the lips of pseudo-great novelists twist in anger.
7. Kublai Khan was a modern. Things fell apart a long time ago. We are already living in the ruins of civilisation. There’s nothing to celebrate. When you toast, make sure you smash your glasses together. This kind of writing should be the same. Harmony is overrated.
8. Forget about the sound of cars, missiles, clever machines and originality, since nothing is less original. There are enough monsters and demons in the real world without needing to look elsewhere.
9. Great developments don’t come about by listlessly trying to please the crowd. They’ll forget in a minute. If the only thing left is a fragment, it better be good. If you’re lucky, you’ll end up like some choliambic poet.
10. There’s nothing wrong with writing a lousy book. Just make sure it’s really lousy. There is nothing worse than competence.
11. Neo-Decadent writers will honour the fragmented, the contorted, the unfinished, the unpublished. Realising there is no glory, no reward, no lavish suppers or dancing on tables. Living in obscure lanes and remote canyons, things will be written in unread languages or translated from the language of lizards and snakes, plagiarised from deep wells and signed with hands wet with the dew of rotting fruit.
12. Nothing comes to an end. Let a little light shine through the darkness and remember that when the universe collapses in on itself you can read the novel back to front.