Masters of American Lit (except Pynchon)

[alice wellintown]

The ambition of the nation's prose writers is a commonplace of
American literary studies: the idea that its ­authors are competing to
compose the great American novel. But this contest is probably a myth
– wasn't it won, as early as 1851, by Herman Melville's Moby-Dick?

Yes, a myth. And, Melville won by losing. No shutters or freaks
snapped at his visage; he was just a man on the street.


Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil,
Nor in the glistering foil
Set off to th' world, nor in broad rumour lies,
But lives and spreds aloft by those pure eyes,
And perfet witnes of all judging Jove;