From Josh Corey's blog I learn that Barbara Guest has (apparently) passed away. With her, modernism in literature. She's one of the last writers with a living connection to modernism, and the driving force of her recent work is a kind of nostalgic late-late-late modernism. There is a kind of exquisite preciocity I associate with her work, and a model of elegance I associate with women of her generation.

What is modernism when it becomes nostalgia? That's a critical problem I've been working on in several articles recently.