{"product_id":"reality-hunger-isbn-9780307387974","title":"Reality Hunger","description":"\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003eA landmark book, “brilliant, thoughtful” (\u003ci\u003eThe Atlantic\u003c\/i\u003e) and “raw and gorgeous” (\u003ci\u003eLA Times\u003c\/i\u003e), that fast-forwards the discussion of the central artistic issues of our time, from the bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eThe Thing About Life Is That One Day You'll Be Dead\u003c\/i\u003e.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWho owns ideas? How clear is the distinction between fiction and nonfiction? Has the velocity of digital culture rendered traditional modes obsolete? Exploring these and related questions, Shields orchestrates a chorus of voices, past and present, to reframe debates about the veracity of memoir and the relevance of the novel. He argues that our culture is obsessed with “reality,” precisely because we experience hardly any, and urgently calls for new forms that embody and convey the fractured nature of contemporary experience.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ePraise for David Shields’s \u003ci\u003eReality Hunger\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A literary battle cry for the creation of a new genre, one that doesn’t draw distinctions between fiction and nonfiction, originality and plagiarism, memoir and fabrication, scripted and unscripted. . . . David Shields [is] brilliant, thoughtful, and yes, original.” —\u003ci\u003eThe Atlantic\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eReality Hunger \u003c\/i\u003eurgently and succinctly addresses matters that have been in the air, have relentlessly gathered momentum, and have just been waiting for someone to link them together. . . . [It] heralds what will be the dominant modes in years and decades to come.” —\u003ci\u003eThe New York Times Book Review\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"The merely literary questions, however, the questions for readers and writers, are not what distinguish \u003ci\u003eReality Hunger \u003c\/i\u003eas the truly necessary book that it has become. Shields identified a spiritual state that has come to dominate American culture as a whole.\" —Stephen Marche, \u003ci\u003eThe Los Angeles Review of Books\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“David Shields draws on a wide range of reference, mixing historical reports, personal events, discussions of new media, and literary quotations (some verbatim, others rejigged), to construct a protean polemic that is also an account . . . of his own mental life. . . . Most importantly, Shields knows how to provoke argument without needing to crush all opposition. Rather, the tussle between reader and writer over the nature of reality, the nature of the text we are reading, is itself the aesthetic experience he is after.” —\u003ci\u003eThe New York Review of Books\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“Good manifestos propagate. Their seeds cling to journals and blogs and conversations, soon enough sprawling sub-manifestoes of acclamation or rebuttal. After the opening call to action, a variety of minds turn their attention to the same problem. It’s the humanist ideal of a dialectic writ large: ideas compete and survive by fitness, not fiat. David Shields’s \u003ci\u003eReality Hunger\u003c\/i\u003e has just the immodest ambition and exhorter’s zeal to bring about this happy scenario.” —\u003ci\u003eThe Wall Street Journal\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“Shields’s radical intellectual manifesto is a rousing call to arms for all artists to reject the laws governing appropriation, obliterate the boundaries between fiction and nonfiction, and give rise to a new modern form.” —\u003ci\u003eVanity Fair\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\"The merely literary questions, however, the questions for readers and writers, are not what distinguish \u003ci\u003eReality Hunger \u003c\/i\u003eas the truly necessary book that it has become. Shields identified a spiritual state that has come to dominate American culture as a whole.\" —\u003ci\u003eLos Angeles Review of Books\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eDavid Shields is the bestselling author of twenty books, including \u003ci\u003eThe Thing About Life, Reality Hunger, Black Planet, Remote,\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eWar Is Beautiful\u003c\/i\u003e. He and his wife live in Seattle, where he is the Milliman Distinguished Writer-in-Residence at the University of Washington. His work has been translated into twenty languages.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cb\u003ea\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eoverture\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e1\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEvery artistic movement from the beginning of time is an attempt to figure out a way to smuggle more of what the artist thinks is reality into the work of art. Zola: “Every proper artist is more or less a realist according to his own eyes.” Braque’s goal: “To get as close as I could to reality.” E.g., Chekhov’s diaries, E. M. Forster’s Commonplace Book, Fitzgerald’s The Crack-Up (much his best book), Cheever’s posthumously ?pub?lished journals (same), Edward Hoagland’s journals, Alan ?Bennett’s Writing Home. So, too, every artistic movement or moment needs a credo: Horace’s Ars Poetica, Sir Philip Sid- ney’s Defence of Poesie, André Breton’s “Surrealist Manifesto,” Dogme 95’s “Vow of Chasity.” My intent is to write the ars poetica for a burgeoning group of interrelated (but unconnected) artists in a multitude of forms and media (lyric essay, prose poem, collage novel, visual art, film, television, radio, performance art, rap, stand-up comedy, graffiti) who are breaking larger and larger chunks of “reality” into their work. (Reality, as Nabokov never got tired of reminding us, is the one word that is meaningless without quotation marks.)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e2\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJeff Crouse’s plug-in Delete City. The quasi–home movie Open Water. Borat: Cultural Learnings of America for Make Benefit ?Glo?rious Nation of Kazakhstan. Joe Frank’s radio show In the Dark. The depilation scene in The 40-Year-Old Virgin. Lynn Shel- ton’s unscripted film Humpday (“All the writing takes place in the editing room”). Nicholas Barker’s “real-life feature” Unmade Beds, in which actors speak from a script based on interviews they conducted with Barker; the structure is that of a documentary, but a small percentage of the material is made up. Todd Haynes’s Superstar—a biopic of Karen Carpenter that uses Barbie dolls as the principal actors and is available now only as a bootleg video. Curb Your Enthusiasm, which—characteristic of this genre, this ungenre, this antigenre—relies on viewer awareness of the creator’s self-conscious, wobbly manipulation of the gap between person and persona. The Eminem Show, in which Marshall Mathers struggles to metabolize his fame and work through “family of origin” issues (life and\/or art?). The Museum of (fictional) Jurassic Technology, which actually exists in Culver City. The (completely fictional) International Necronautical Society’s (utterly serious) “Declaration of Inauthenticity.” So, too, public-access TV, karaoke nights, VH1’s Behind the Music series, “behind-the-scenes” interviews running parallel to the “real” action on reality television shows, rap artists taking a slice of an existing song and building an entirely new song on top of it, DVDs of feature films that inevitably include a documentary on the “making of the movie.” The Bachelor tells us more about the state of unions than any romantic comedy could dream of telling us. The appeal of Billy Collins is that compared with the frequently hieroglyphic obscurantism of his colleagues, his poems sound like they were tossed off in a couple of hours while he drank scotch and listened to jazz late at night (they weren’t; this is an illusion). A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius was full of the same self-conscious apparatus that had bored everyone silly until it got tethered to what felt like someone’s “real life” (even if the author constantly reminded us how fictionalized that life was). At once desperate for authenticity and in love with artifice, I know all the moments are “moments”: staged and theatrical, shaped and thematized. I find I can listen to talk radio in a way that I can’t abide the network news—the sound of human voices waking before they drown.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e3\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAn artistic movement, albeit an organic and as-yet-unstated one, is forming. What are its key components? A deliberate unartiness: “raw” material, seemingly unprocessed, unfiltered, uncensored, and unprofessional. (What, in the last half century, has been more influential than Abraham Zapruder’s Super-8 film of the Kennedy assassination?) Randomness, openness to accident and serendipity, spontaneity; artistic risk, emotional urgency and intensity, reader\/viewer participation; an overly literal tone, as if a reporter were viewing a strange culture; plasticity of form, pointillism; criticism as autobiography; self-reflexivity, self-ethnography, anthropological autobiography; a blurring (to the point of invisibility) of any distinction between fiction and nonfiction: the lure and blur of the real.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e4\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn most books, the I, or first person, is omitted; in this it will be retained; that, in respect to egotism, is the main difference. We commonly do not remember that it is, after all, always the first person that is speaking.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e5\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt must all be considered as if spoken by a character in a novel (minus the novel).\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e6\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI need say nothing, only exhibit.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003ey\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003emanifesto\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e588\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eIt’s a commonplace that every book needs to find its own form, but how many do?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e589\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eIf you want to write serious books, you must be ready to break the forms.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e590\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eAll great works of literature either dissolve a genre or invent one. \u003ci\u003eLet Us All Now Praise Famous Men. Nadja. Cane. Oh, What\u003c\/i\u003e \u003ci\u003ea Blow That Phantom Gave Me! \u003c\/i\u003e“The Moon in Its Flight.” \u003ci\u003eWisconsin\u003c\/i\u003e \u003ci\u003eDeath Trip. Letters to Wendy’s.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e591\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eWe evaluate artists by how much they are able to rid themselves of convention.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e592\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eJazz as jazz—jazzy jazz—is pretty well finished. The interesting stuff is all happening on the fringes of the form where there are elements of jazz and elements of all sorts of other things as well. Jazz is a trace, but it’s not a defining trace. Something similar is happening in prose. Although great novels—novelly novels—are still being written, a lot of the most interesting things are happening on the fringes of several forms.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e593\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eStill (very still), at the heart of “literary culture” is the big, blockbuster novel by middle-of-the-road writers, the run-of the- mill four-hundred-page page-turner. Amazingly, people continue to want to read that.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e594\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eThe Corrections, \u003c\/i\u003esay: I couldn’t read that book if my life depended on it. It might be a “good” novel or it might be a “bad” novel, but something has happened to my imagination, which can no longer yield to the earnest embrace of novelistic form.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e595\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eIs it possible that contemporary literary prizes are a bit like the federal bailout package, subsidizing work that is no longer remotely describing reality?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e596\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eIf literary terms were about artistic merit and not the rules of convenience, about achievement and not safety, the term \u003ci\u003erealism\u003c\/i\u003e would be an honorary one, conferred only on work that actually builds unsentimental reality on the page, that matches the complexity of life with an equally rich arrangement in language. It would be assigned no matter the stylistic or linguistic method, no matter the form. This, alas, would exclude many writers who believe themselves to be realistic, most notably those who seem to equate writing with operating a massive karaoke machine.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e597\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eA novel, for most readers—and critics—is primarily a “story.” A true novelist is one who knows how to “tell a story.” To “tell a story well” is to make what one writes resemble the schemes people are used to—in other words, their ready-made idea of reality. But a work of art, like the world, is a living form. It’s in its form that its reality resides.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e598\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003eUrgency attaches itself now more to the tale taken directly from life than one fashioned by the imagination out of life.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e599\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eI want the veil of “let’s pretend” out. I don’t like to be carried into purely fanciful circumstances. The never-never lands of the imagination don’t interest me that much. Beckett decided that everything was false to him, almost, in art, with its designs and formulae. He wanted art, but he wanted it right from life. He didn’t like, finally, that Joycean voice that was too abundant, too Irish, endlessly lyrical, endlessly allusive. He went into French to cut down. He wanted to directly address desperate individual existence, which bores many readers. I find him a joyous writer, though; his work reads like prayer. You don’t have to think about literary allusions but experience itself. That’s what I want from the voice. I want it to transcend artifice.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e600\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eThis is life lived on high alert.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e601\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNearly all writing, up to the present, has been a search for the “beautiful illusion.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e602\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eNowhere do you get the feeling of a writer deforming his medium in order to say what has never been said before, which is to me the mark of great writing.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e603\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003eVery well. I am not in search of the “beautiful illusion.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e604\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eCritics can’t believe that the power to make us feel our one and only life, as very few novelists actually do these days, has come from a memoirist, a nonfiction truth-speaker who has entered our common situation and is telling the story we now want told. But it has.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e605\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eThere’s inevitably something terribly contrived about the standard novel; you can always feel the wheels grinding and going on.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e606\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eIf you write a novel, you sit and weave a little narrative. If you’re a romantic writer, you write novels about men and women falling in love, give a little narrative here and there, etc. And it’s okay, but it’s of no account. Novel qua novel is a form of nostalgia.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e607\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eThere is more to be pondered in the grain and texture of life than traditional fiction allows. The work of essayists is vital precisely because it permits and encourages self-knowledge in a way that is less indirect than fiction, more open and speculative.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e608\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eOne would like to think that the personal essay represents basic research on the self, in ways that are allied with science and philosophy.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e609\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eThe poem and the essay are more intimately related than any two genres, because they’re both ways of pursuing problems, or maybe trying to solve problems—\u003ci\u003eThe Dream Songs, \u003c\/i\u003ethe long prologue to \u003ci\u003eSlaughterhouse-Five, \u003c\/i\u003epretty much all of Philip Larkin and Anne Carson, Annie Dillard’s \u003ci\u003eFor the Time Being.\u003c\/i\u003e Maybe these works succeed, maybe they fail, but at least they all attempt to clarify the problem at hand. They’re journeys, pursuits of knowledge. One could say that fiction, metaphorically, is a pursuit of knowledge, but ultimately it’s a form of entertainment. I think that, at the very least, essays and poems more directly and more urgently attempt to figure out something about the world. Which is why I can’t read novels anymore, with very few exceptions, the exceptions being those\u003cbr\u003enovels so meditative they’re barely disguised essays. David Markson’s \u003ci\u003eThis Is Not a Novel, Reader’s Block, Vanishing Point,\u003c\/i\u003e \u003ci\u003eThe Last Novel. \u003c\/i\u003eCoetzee’s \u003ci\u003eElizabeth Costello. \u003c\/i\u003eKundera’s \u003ci\u003eImmortality.\u003c\/i\u003e Most of Houellebecq. Doctorow’s \u003ci\u003eThe Book of Daniel. \u003c\/i\u003eBenjamin Constant’s \u003ci\u003eAdolphe. \u003c\/i\u003eLydia Davis, everything.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e610\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe kinds of novels I like are ones which bear no trace of being novels.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e611\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOnly the suspect artist starts from art; the true artist draws his material elsewhere: from himself. There’s only one thing worse than boredom—the fear of boredom—and it’s this fear I experience every time I open a novel. I have no use for the hero’s life, don’t attend to it, don’t even believe in it. The genre, having squandered its substance, no longer has an object. The character is dying out; the plot, too. It’s no accident that the only novels deserving of interest today are those in which, once the universe is disbanded, nothing happens—e.g., \u003ci\u003eTristram Shandy,\u003c\/i\u003e \u003ci\u003eNotes from Underground, \u003c\/i\u003eCamus’s \u003ci\u003eThe Fall, \u003c\/i\u003eThomas Bern hard’s \u003ci\u003eCorrection, \u003c\/i\u003eDuras’s \u003ci\u003eThe Lover, \u003c\/i\u003eBarry Hannah’s \u003ci\u003eBoomerang.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e612\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eWhat the lyric essay inherits from the public essay is a facthungry pursuit of solutions to problems, while from the personal essay it takes a wide-eyed dallying in the heat of predicaments. Lyric essays seek answers yet seldom seem to find them. They may arise out of a public essay that never manages to prove its case, may emerge from the stalk of a personal essay to sprout out and meet “the other,” may start out as trav- elogues that forget where they are or begin as prose poems that refuse quick conclusions, may originate as lines that resist being broken or full-bodied paragraphs that start slimming down. They’re hybrids that perch on the fence between the willed and the felt. A lyric essay is an oxymoron: an essay that’s also a lyric, a kind of logic that wants to sing, an argument that has no chance of proving out.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e613\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eAn essay that becomes a lyric is an essay that has killed itself.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e614\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eThere are no facts, only art.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e615\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eWhat actually happened is only raw material; what the writer makes of what happened is all that matters.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e616\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eOnce upon a time there will be readers who won’t care what imaginative writing is called and will read it for its passion, its force of intellect, and its formal originality. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e617\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eNever again will a single story be told as though it were the only one.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAppendix:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e2      Sentence about Unmade Beds: Soyon Im, “The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly,” Seattle Weekly\u003cbr\u003e4      Thoreau\u003cbr\u003e5      Roland Barthes, Barthes by Barthes (who else would be the author?); “minus the novel”: Michael Dirda, “Whispers in the Darkness,” Washington Post\u003cbr\u003e6      Walter Benjamin\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e588 O’Brien\u003cbr\u003e589 Naipaul, quoted in James Wood, “Wounder and Wounded,” \u003ci\u003eNew Yorker\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e590 First sentence: Benjamin\u003cbr\u003e591 Richard Serra, quoted in Kimmelman, “At the Met and the Modern with\u003cbr\u003eRichard Serra,” \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e592 Dyer\u003cbr\u003e596 Marcus, “Why Experimental Fiction Threatens to Destroy Publishing,\u003cbr\u003eJonathan Franzen, and Life as We Know It,” \u003ci\u003eHarper’s\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e597 Robbe-Grillet\u003cbr\u003e598 Gornick\u003cbr\u003e599 Hannah\u003cbr\u003e601 Williams, \u003ci\u003eSpring and All\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e602 Coetzee, \u003ci\u003eSummertime\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e603 Williams\u003cbr\u003e604 Gornick\u003cbr\u003e605 Sebald\u003cbr\u003e606 All but last sentence: Naipaul, quoted in Donadio, “The Irascible\u003cbr\u003eProphet,” \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e607–608 Lopate\u003cbr\u003e609 First five sentences except titles: D’Agata, \u003ci\u003eCollision \u003c\/i\u003einterview\u003cbr\u003e610 Dyer, \u003ci\u003eOut of Sheer Rage\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e611 Except for titles, E. M. Cioran, \u003ci\u003eThe Temptation to Exist\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e612 D’Agata, \u003ci\u003eThe Next American Essay\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e613 Plutarch\u003cbr\u003e614 Emerson\u003cbr\u003e615 Gornick\u003cbr\u003e616 Marcus, “The Genre Artist,” \u003ci\u003eBeliever\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e617 Berger, \u003ci\u003eG\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e ","brand":"Vintage","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46300159934693,"sku":"NP9780307387974","price":16.95,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780307387974.jpg?v=1767735480","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/reality-hunger-isbn-9780307387974","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}