What I've been hearing from literary types is a lot of whining. Literary authors published by small presses piss and moan about being underpublished (and we know who they are), victims of some vast corporate conspiracy set on destroying the minds of consumerist capitalist victims. Over the years a goodly number of writers have used the pages of American Book Review to sound off against the corporatization and commodification of American letters. We hear how the New York publishing houses have abandoned literature because, hey, why not?—because Americans have been duped and spoon-fed mass-market goop for so long that they prefer the goop. We hear the moan that literature is on its deathbed, twitching and pissing in its adult diapers. Charles Frazier gets an eight million dollar advance on his new book, Thirteen Moons, and the “literary” writers collectively scream in oppressed agony. Stephen King gets a lifetime achievement award from the National Book Award committee,…