Contemporary Literature and Autobiography

I looked anew at unnameable things, or at least things whose essence is flicker, flow… and wondered anew, can everything be thought. (5)

Gendered self-consciousness has a flickering nature. (18) Maggie Nelson, The Argonauts


I decided to replace the book I’d proposed with the book you’re reading now, a work that, like a poem, is neither fiction nor nonfiction, but a flickering between them. (194) Ben Lerner, 10:04


What is the contemporary? How do we define it as such? A discussion of ‘contemporary’ literature necessarily implicates the question of historical categorization and literary periodization. The genealogy of autobiography can be mapped in relation to shifts in the understanding of the ontology of the subject; in the wake of post-structuralism and psychoanalysis, autobiographical projects increasingly attempted to come to grips with the notion of self-difference (Radstone 30). With the advent of new technologies and the ubiquity of the online world, the turn of the twenty-first century brought forth a radical new era in which the self as fiction became a mass-cultural practice (Groys, Comrades of Time). Postmodern literature, which examined how our knowledge of the world is mediated by and through language, sought to lay bare the construction of narrative fiction to reveal how reality itself is similarly ‘written’; how the coherence of the individual subject is illusionary, provisional; built on a shifting reality of impermanent structures (Waugh). Alongside an awareness of the creator’s self-consciousness, postmodern literature was marked by a sense that ‘text and world are permeable’ (Lewis 178). For contemporary writers, this preoccupation with the relation between life and art has shifted; experiments in autobiography allow, through an examination of the self made public, a form of political re-imagining; a move away from irony in order to gesture towards new modes of possibility, towards new forms of collective existence. Alongside 10:04 and The Argonauts, works such as Claudia Rankine’s Citizen ‘dissolve and invent new genres’ (Shields) while troubling the notion of an autonomous work of art. These texts explicitly position themselves in relation to other cultural artefacts by directly embedding other artworks into their own internal fabric. In the same way that the unity and integrity of the autobiographical ‘I’ is inevitably fictive, so too is the self-identity of the individual text; as Barbara Johnson describes in A World of Difference: ‘intertextuality designates the multitude of ways a text has of not being self-contained, of being transversed by otherness…the text is no longer an independent, homogenous message unit, a totalizable collection of signifieds’ (166). The contemporary, an age ‘at once desperate for authenticity and in love with artifice’ (Shields), is met by a literature which increasingly foregrounded how the performativity of writing was intimately bound with the performativity of the self. For writers such as Nelson and Lerner, the distinction between fiction and non-fiction —between prose and poetry, between criticism and narrative, between memoir and novel—no longer obtained.


10:04 is not a fictionalized memoir, or an autobiography disguised as a prose novel; it’s a work that deliberately flickers on ‘the very edge of fiction’ (157), blurring the boundaries of life and art. Ben Lerner’s 10:04 can be classified as a work of ‘auto-fiction’, a term coined by Serge Doubrovsky to describe: ‘an intimate narrative whose author, narrator and protagonist share the same nominal identity’ (Ferreira-Meyers 195). The ‘plot’ of 10:04, while weaving in and out of multiple temporalities, centres on the process of its own construction, how the unnamed narrator of 10:04 comes to write the very novel in which the reader is reading. In this regard, 10:04 seems to be a tread on a familiar theme, following the tradition of the self-referential, metafictional postmodern novel, a form prevalent in American fiction of the past few decades (Blair). However, Ben Lerner sees his auto-fictional project as a departure from the generation of postmodern writers who preceded him, whose works ‘drew attention to their own devices, their own artificiality, in order to mock fiction’s inability to make contact with anything outside of itself’ (Lin, ‘Ben Lerner’). Lerner is more interested in the abstract potentiality of the medium; ‘the ability of the novel to absorb other genres is, it seems to me, a wonderful potential of the form’ (Rogers 229). For Lerner, literature can figure, within the irreducible social material of language, possibilities that have not yet been actualized (Lin, ‘You’re A Poet’); ‘fiction isn’t an escape into an imaginary world; it’s about little rediscriptions (sic) of the world that we exist in; it’s the power to imagine different futures’ (Sehgal). Lerner views the novel as ‘a kind of virtual poem’, a form that emerged when the conditions of possibility for poetry have been lost: ‘insofar as we experience the novel as something that emerges out of poetry’s impossibility, I think the former is haunted by the latter: verse is a present absence in its prose…the novel as a genre is inextricable from the banishment of poetry to the realm of the virtual’ (Lin, ‘You’re A Poet’). Born into a generation steeped in and adept at irony, Lerner sees 10:04 as a novel that breaks through ironic posturing (Sehgal); Lerner’s narrator foregrounds this in the opening scene, where he announces to the reader his poetic endeavour: ‘I’ll work my way from irony to sincerity in the sinking city, a would be Whitman of the vulnerable grid (4).’


The self-referentiality of 10:04 is a way of exploring how fiction functions in our real lives; ‘how we live fictions, how fictions have real effects, become facts in that sense, and how our experience of the world changes depending on its arrangement into one narrative or another’ (Lin, ‘Ben Lerner’). 10:04 is about how the fiction of the future informs the reality of the present; this can take monetary and material form, such as a six-figure advance to expand a critically successful short story into a novel. Lerner is interested in how the collapse between art and life exposes the systems of relations—both virtual and actual—in which the subject, and the work of art, is entangled:

My poems are at their most personal when there is simultaneously a sense of the first-person as a node in a system, and as a medium of lived experience (Sudgen).

I’ve thought of fiction as particularly suited to depicting new modes of communication and conveyance—the way they reorganize social space, collapsing certain distances, establishing new ones. And this is where fiction becomes politically interesting to me, how it can represent—and how it can make felt—the inextricability of self and systems. (Leyshon)

Lerner’s examination of himself as artist is also an examination of art before and after capital, foregrounding the material conditions and social relations that produce the art object. 10:04 begins precisely when it becomes a commodity, a virtual product to be auctioned in the literary market place. This future, virtual work of fiction has very real, tangible effects in the narrator’s life; it is quite literally procreative, begetting new life by providing the material means for the conception of the narrator’s progeny. Lerner’s short story, The Golden Vanity, reproduced in full as the second section of 10:04, is explicitly about this ‘crossing of reality and fiction’ (55); ‘the weird fact of encountering one’s fiction in the world’ (Rogers 236). It is while watching Christian Marclay’s The Clock — ‘the ultimate collapse of fictional time into real time, a work designed to obliterate the distance between art and life, fantasy and reality (54)’—that Lerner’s narrator conceives how he would write what would become The Golden Vanity:

 ‘I felt acutely […] the utopian glimmer of fiction. When I looked at my watch to see a unit of measurement identical to the one displayed on the screen, I was indicating that a distance remained between art and the mundane. Everything will be as it is now – just a little different. (54).

While 10:04’s account of how The Golden Vanity came into being is ‘a fiction, however flickering’ (Lin, ‘Ben Lerner’), it nonetheless demonstrates the essential interdependency that exists between works of art. Lerner ‘assimilates and arranges and dramatizes encounters with other genres’ (Lerner, ‘The Actual World’) in his novel; his criticism and poetry—which pre-exist, independent of 10:04—are reappropriated in the narrative; parts of his essay ‘Damage Control’ are reproduced verbatim when the narrator visits the ‘Institute for Totalled Art’ (itself modelled on the Salvage Art Institute), and the poem he writes in Marfa is Lerner’s own, The Dark Threw Patches Upon Me Also. While this is another way that Lerner collapses the partition between historical author and fictional narrator, he is also fascinated by how ‘exact passages of text change when they’re lifted from one genre and placed in another—when they are read under the pressures of nonfiction’s truth claims or fiction’s aesthetic pressures’ (Leyshon). These works are radically recontextualized, no longer self-identical to themselves— ‘while they’re materially identical—every word is the same—they’re utterly transformed. Like a world to come’ (Lin, ‘Ben Lerner’). This sentiment directly echoes 10:04’s narrator, who muses: ‘discovering you are not identical with yourself even in the most disturbing and painful way still contains the glimmer, however refracted, of the world to come, where everything is the same but a little different’ (109).


Lerner sees the novel as a fundamentally curatorial form: ‘the novel is an art work in which you can embed other art works—real or imagined—in a variety of thickly described artificial environments’ (Lerner, ‘The Actual World’). Literature is a space where a reader can have a kind of ‘second-order aesthetic experience’ (Rogers 229), a virtual encounter with other works of art; paintings, photographs, translucent cube sculptures shimmering in the desert. This is another way wherein the author, narrator, and reader can participate in a sort of correspondence, by virtue of their existence in a shared world of references. For Lerner, what’s interesting about any work of art is that it implicates an ‘implied history of people’s looking … a community of viewers’ (Sehgal). In this, it is not the author who is privileged, but the collective audience— ‘a still-uninhabited second person plural to whom all the arts, even in their most intimate registers, were nevertheless addressed’ (167). In their virtuality, art and poetry points to what it can’t contain; the desire for something beyond what’s actual—the impulse to get beyond the human, the finite, the historical, to reach the transcendent or divine (Lin, ‘You’re A Poet’). Lerner’s fictionalization of himself is a possible solution to the paradox exemplified by Whitman: ‘Whitman, because he wants to stand for everyone, because he wants to be less a historical person than a marker for democratic personhood, can’t really write a memoir full of a life’s particularities’ (168). Within modernity, for Lerner, the artist, the poet—the authors of meaning in the social world we all share—are tasked with an almost impossible feat: marrying the secular, the personal, and the private with the transcendent, the communal, and the public. Lerner’s narrator resolves ‘to become one of the artists who momentarily made bad forms of collectivity figures of its possibility, a proprioceptive flicker in advance of the communal body’ (109). Instead of, like Whitman, trying to empty himself out into a personality so abstract that ‘all the readers of the future could participate’ (168), Lerner’s novel performs all the ways in which he—an empirical person, a figure of irreducible individuality—is not identical to himself: ‘I am writing out of my experience most directly when I am writing about my difference from myself in time, which means what’s authentic about my voice is discontinuity as much as continuity’ (Sudgen).



Maggie Nelson’s The Argonauts dramatizes the act of writing autobiographically: ‘I write about things that are typically coded as personal—the experience of having a body; of having sex, of having feelings, including ugly ones; anecdotes from my daily life; details about people I know and often love…I don’t valorize the personal over the impersonal or the theoretical, nor do I experience such realms to be in necessary opposition to each other’ (Quinn). Like 10:04, The Argonauts is a work situated between categories—poetics and prose, lyricism and theory, life and text—while demonstrating, precisely, the failure of categories to fully render the complexity of reality: ‘the transitive, the flight, the great soup of being in which we actually live’ (66). The Argonauts doesn’t sit comfortably within any genre nomination, be it ‘memoir’, ‘criticism’, ‘poetry’, or ‘non-fiction’; it is always seems to overflow, in abundance of the designations that seek to capture it. The Argonauts opens with a discussion of Harry’s and Maggie’s opposing relationships to language: ‘I had spent a lifetime devoted to Wittgenstein’s idea the inexpressible is contained—inexpressibly! —in the expressed. Its paradox is, quite literally, why I write, or how I feel able to keep writing… you had spent a lifetime equally devoted to the conviction that words are not good enough. Not only not good enough, but corrosive to all that is good, all that is real, all that is flow (3-4).’ How to reconcile this paradox, that language is a site both of possibility and failure, of freedom and oppression? For Nelson, the answer is not ‘an ontological either/or’ (43) — words can be both good enough, and not good enough: ‘I argued for plethora, for kaleidoscopic shifting, for excess (4)…one must always become alert to the multitude of possible uses, possible contexts, the wings with which each word can fly.’ (9) For Harry, who moves through the world in a non-binary gender space, the limitations, indeed, the disciplinary nature of identification is imbued with a potential violence: ‘once we name something, you said, we can never see it the same way again. All that is unnameable falls away, gets lost, is murdered (4).’ The necessity is, then, for words to be ‘willing to designate molten or shifting parts’; to retain space for ‘a sense of the fugitive’ (36)—that which escapes or cannot be contained. In this manner, language must abide by Eve Sedwidgick’s mantra to both ‘pluralize and specify’; ‘an activity that demands an attentiveness—a relentlessness, even—whose very rigor tips into ardour’ (78).


‘If I insist that there is a performance or a performativity at work, I don’t mean to say that I’m not myself in writing, or that my writing somehow isn’t me’ (75). Like Judith Butler’s concept of gender performativity, this notion of ‘performance’ isn’t in opposition to ‘the real’, but rather signifies the iterative nature of both identity and writing; in this, Nelson champions a ‘writing that dramatizes the ways in which we are for another or by virtue of another [Judith Butler]’ (75). In The Argonauts Nelson moves seamlessly from her own thoughts to that of an other’s, making explicit how the evolution of her subjectivity is grounded in the inter-subjective. Nelson describes this practice as a kind of ‘leaning against’; ‘instead of wanting to hide that leaning, my impulse has often been to showcase it, to make this thinking-with-others, this weaving of mine and others’ words, part of the texture of my writing’ (Nelson, ‘Writing With’). Nelson creates fluidity by way of marginal attribution, where she digests quotes from others without a break in the skin of her text. For this, The Argonauts has been labelled ‘autotheory’, in that it stages a dialogue with other feminist and queer theorists, artists, and poets, creating its own context for existence and drawing its own families of relation:

‘the leaning against I’m talking about takes place on a horizontal plane of action, not a vertical one. It brings one into the land of wild associations, rather than that of grim congenital lineage. It is a place, as Gertrude Stein would have it, in which “the difference is spreading ” (Nelson, ‘Writing With’).

For Nelson and ‘the many gendered mothers of [her] heart,’ there is no opposition between theory and the personal, between ivory-tower scholarship and lived, embodied experience—it’s all one flow. One of the great gifts of being a feminist, Nelson says, is that ‘you know you don’t really and truly belong in the canon club, so you’re free to play’ (Nelson, ‘Writing With’).  Indeed, the personal made public is all the more fraught when it is so intimately tied with other lives. Nelson describes first showing Harry a draft of the Argonauts: ‘why can’t you just write something that will bear adequate witness to me, to us, to our happiness? Because I do not yet understand the relationship between writing and happiness, or writing and holding’ (58). The Argonauts, in mapping out new forms of coexistence, new family relations in the terrain of queer experience, is keenly aware of the question of representation: ‘[The Argonauts] takes up very directly the problem of writing about others–and while I’m partly talking about a literal, pragmatic thing … I’m also talking about the problem of representing any Other in text (perhaps including oneself). Which leads into larger questions about representation in general–what is gained or sacrificed in the attempt to make something legible’ (Quinn). Articulation may not able to paper over holes; indeed, it may even create new ones—‘that’s part of the horror of speaking, of writing’ (121). This is the problem Nelson has with ‘crappy fiction’: ‘it purports to provide occasions for thinking through complex issues, but really it has predetermined the positions, stuffed a narrative full of false choices, and hooked you on them, rendering you less able to see out, to get out’ (102). For Nelson, her aim is not to ‘rediscover the eternal or the universal’ but to find the conditions under which something new is produced (creativeness) [Deleuze/Parnet] (128).


 More and more, contemporary writing refuses the metaphysics of genre, choosing instead to transgress the conventions, expectations, and taxonomies of form: ‘hybridity is the historical literary norm, and that any rigid idea of genre, or the impulse to staple a writer into any one form, is the true anomaly’ (Nelson, Atlas Interview). In the wake of the ontological instability of the postmodern era, there is a sense that autobiography inevitably undoes itself, since its attempt to inscribe subjective coherence paradoxically reveals that coherence as illusionary; the splitting between the writing ‘I’ and the ‘I’ that is written about—the subject and object of discourse—exposes the ‘otherness’ at heart of subjectivity (Radstone 30). Yet the porous boundary between the imagined and the actual, the fictional and the real, creates new sites that open up possibilities of conceiving alterity, ‘a tear in the fabric of the story that let in some other sort of light’ (Lerner, ‘Drawing Words’). Nelson and Lerner share a certain angling toward the political, in that their enactment of politics is characterized by a constant querying, a deliberate performance of self-inquiry that is orientated toward the collective — ‘a second person plural on the perennial verge of existence’ (10:04, 124). The boundary between text and reality allows writers to explore the very way we conceive ourselves in the world. As David Shields proclaims: ‘I’m not interested, though, in self per se; I’m interested in self as theme-carrier, as host. The beauty of reality-based art—art underwritten by reality-hunger—is that it’s perfectly situated between life itself and the unattainable’ (The Believer). Similarly, Chris Kraus notes, it was no longer the fact of the ‘I’ that was important, ‘but the way it moved through the text and the world’ (The New Universal). Experiments in autobiography—the movement back and forth between the shimmer of what’s been artfully constructed and the glint of what actually is (Jamison) — indeed, has a long tradition in an existing genre, poetry, but now contemporary writers transpose this impulse into new and unimagined forms.




Ferreira-Meyers, Karen. ‘Autobiography and Autofiction: No Need to Fight for a Place in the Limelight, there is Space Enough for Both of these Concepts’ in Writing the Self: Essays in Autobiography and Autofiction, eds. Kerstin W Shands, Giulia Grillo Mikrut, Dipti R. Pattanaik, Karen Ferreira-Meyers. Elanders: 2015

Groys, Boris. ‘Comrades of Time.’ e-flux journal, no.11. December 2009, Accessed 10 Oct. 2016

Jamison, Leslie and Mendelsohn, David. ‘What Accounts for Our Current – or Recurrent – fascination with Memoir-Novels?’ The New York Times (Sunday Book Review /Bookends). 23 Dec. 2014, Accessed 12 Oct. 2016

Johnson, Barbara. ‘Some Reflections on Intertextuality,’ in A World Of Difference. Baltimore and London: The John Hopkins University Press, 1987

Kirby, Alan. ‘The Death of Postmodernism and Beyond.’ Philosophy Now, no. 58. Oct/Nov 2006, Accessed 15 Oct. 2016

Kraus, Chris. ‘The New Universal. Sydney Review of Books (Features). 17 Oct. 2014, Accessed 11 Oct. 2016

Lewis, Barry. ‘Postmodernism and Fiction,’ in The Routledge Companion to Postmodernism, ed. Stuart Sim. Taylor and Francis, 2012.

Radstone, Susannah. ‘The Confessional Mode: Confession and Autobiography,’ in The Sexual Politics of Time: Confession, Nostalgia, Memory. London & New York: Routledge, 2007

Shields, David. ‘Reality Hunger: A Manifesto. The Believer. March 2006, Accessed 13 Oct. 2016

Sturgeon, Jonathan. ‘The Death of the Postmodern Novel and the Rise of Autofiction.’ Flavorwire (Books). 31 Dec. 2014, Accessed 9 Oct. 2016

— ‘2015 In Literature: After Nature, After Autofiction.’ Flavorwire (Books).  17 Dec. 2015, Accessed 9 Oct. 2016

— ‘Poetry’s Revenge on the Essay: Brian Blanchfield, Maggie Nelson, and the New Nonfiction.’ Flavorwire (Books). 13 April. 2016, Accessed 9 Oct. 2016

Waugh, Patricia. Metafiction: The Theory and Practice of Self-Conscious Fiction. London: Routledge, 1984.


Criticism on Ben Lerner’s 10:04

Bishop, Stephanie. ‘The same but different.’ Sydney Review of Books. 6 Feb. 2015, Accessed 15 Oct. 2016

Blair, Elaine. ‘So This is How It Works.’ London Review of Books. Vol. 37 (4), 19 February 2015, Accessed 8 Oct. 2016

Evans, Tom. ‘Ben Lerner, 10:04, & The Death of Silence.’  The Quietus. February 22, 2014, Accessed 10 Oct. 2016

Harvey, Giles. ‘Future Man.’ The New York Review of Books. December 18, 2014, Accessed 9 Oct. 2016

Fulford, Robert. ‘Ben Lerner creates worlds within words again with new novel 10:04.’ The National Post. 16 Sept. 2014, Accessed 15 Oct. 2016

Nelson, Maggie. ‘Slipping the Surly Bonds of the Earth: On Ben Lerner’s Latest.’ The Los Angeles Review of Books. 24 Aug. 2014, Accessed 11 Oct. 2016

Lerner, Ben. ‘The Actual World.’ Frieze (Profile). 16 June. 2013, Accessed 15 Oct. 2016 Accessed 5 Oct. 2016

— ‘Damage Control.’ Harper’s Magazine. Dec. 2013 Accessed 15 Oct. 2016 Accessed 5 Oct. 2016

Lorentzen, Christian. ‘Back to the Present: Ben Lerner’s metafictional novel about art, ambition, and a writer named Ben.’ Bookforum. Sept/Oct/Nov 2014 Issue. Accessed 8 Oct. 2016

Sehgal, Parul. ‘Drawing Words from the Well of Art.’ The New York Times (Books). 22 Aug. 2014, Accessed 15 Oct. 2016


Interviews with Ben Lerner

‘A Novel on the Very Edge of Fiction.’ The Public. (Audio Podcast) 16 March, 2015 Accessed 15 Oct. 2016

Holdengraber, Paul. ‘Ben Lerner – 10:04.’ The New York Public Library Podcast. (Audio Podcast) 27 Sept. 2014, Accessed 17 Oct. 2016

Leyshon, Cressida. ‘This week in fiction: Ben Lerner on Art, Fiction, and Uber.’ The New Yorker (Page Turner. 31 May, 2016, Accessed 8 Oct. 2016

Lin, Tao. ‘You’re a poet: Don’t you hate most poems?’ The Believer (Online Exclusive). Accessed 4 Oct. 2016

— ‘Ben Lerner.’ The Believer (Online Exclusive). Date Unknown, Accessed 16 Oct. 2016

Reines, Ariana. ‘Ben Lerner & Ariana Reines.’ Bomb Magazine 129 (Literature: Interview). Fall 2014, Accessed 13 Oct. 2016

Rogers, Gayle. ‘An Interview with Ben Lerner.’ Contemporary Literature.  Vol. 54 (2), 2013

Sudgen, Ed. ‘An Interview with Ben Lerner.’ Wave Composition. Issue 4. 26 March, 2012, Accessed 11 Oct. 2016


Criticism on Maggie Nelson’s The Argonauts

Als, Hilton. ‘Immediate Family: Maggie Nelson’s life in words.’ The New Yorker (Life and Letters). 18 April. 2016, Accessed 15 Oct. 2016

Degooyer, Stephanie. ‘Maggie Nelson’s The Argonauts.’ Frieze (Profile). 24 Aug. 2015, Accessed 13 Oct. 2016

Donegan, Moira. ‘Gay as in Happy: On Maggie Nelson.’ n+1. Issue 23: As If. Fall 2015, Accessed 14 Oct. 2016

Huffstutter, Nathan. ‘Becoming Object: The Argonauts by Maggie Nelson.’ Electric Lit (Books). 4 May, 2015, Accessed 15 Oct. 2016

Nelson, Maggie. ‘Writing With, From, and For Others.’ Tin House Blog (the Open Bar). 30 Oct. 2012 Accessed 10 Oct. 2016

Paige, Abby. ‘Queering the Momoir.’ Los Angeles Review of Books. 26 April, 2015! Accessed 15 Oct. 2016

Turner, Jenny. ‘Like a Manta Ray.’ London Review of Books. Vol.37, No.20, 22 Oct. 2015, Accessed 15 Oct. 2016



Interviews with Maggie Nelson

Armistead, Claire. ‘Maggie Nelson and Chris Kraus on Confessional Writing.’ The Guardian Books Podcast. (Audio Podcast) 28 May, 2016, Accessed 15 Oct. 2016

Boever, Arne de. ‘Maggie Nelson interviewed by Arne de Boever.’ The Los Angeles Review of Books.  (Audio Podcast) 31 March, 2012,! Accessed 14 Oct. 2016

Corin, Lucy. ‘Maggie Nelson in Conversation.’ Litquake’s Lit Cast. (Audio Podcast) 15 September, 2015, Accessed 15 Oct. 2016

Koestenbaum, Wayne. ‘Maggie Nelson & Wayne Koestenbaum on Clarity & Cruelty.’ The New York Public Podcast. (Audio Podcast) 23 Aug. 2016, Accessed 16 Oct. 2016

Naimon, David. ‘Maggie Nelson: The Argonauts.’ Between the Covers. (Audio Podcast). 29 July, 2015 Accessed 15 Oct. 2016

Orbison, Jake. ‘The Inquiry/Fight/Love Goes On In Other Words: An Interview with Maggie Nelson.’ Yale Literary Magazine. Fall 2015, Accessed 15 Oct. 2016

Quinn, Molly Rose. ‘Interview with Maggie Nelson.’ The Atlas Review. Issue 4. Accessed 14 Oct. 2016

Steiner. A.L. ‘Maggie Nelson.’ Bomb Magazine 132 – Artists in Conversation (Literature: Interview). Summer 2015, Accessed 15 Oct. 2016

Steinke, Darcey. ‘The Rumpus Interview With Maggie Nelson.’ The Rumpus. May 6th, 2015. Accessed 15 Oct. 2016



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