The Sparkle Gazette

A literary posture in which the author's primary narrative concerns unrelenting suffering, cruelty, or futility, presented as tautologically profound — that is, the depiction of misery is treated as self-justifying evidence of insight or depth, without further interrogation, nuance, or catharsis.

Distinguished from tragedy (which allows for catharsis and moral engagement) and realism (which seeks to represent reality in its full complexity), Miseryism thrives on performative self-unawareness and often emerges through a masculine pretense that bleakness alone constitutes artistic or philosophical merit.

While the idea has been analyzed in various critical contexts, II think Miseryism as a standalone term allows us to name a cultural-literary phenomenon that increasingly dominates certain aesthetic corners: the conflation of raw suffering with insight, especially when deployed in a performative, self-congratulatory way.

“Aye, then, you’ll be wanting Mr Thatcher, he’s just round that corner. Follow yer nose."

“I’m sorry, did you say the baker is Mr Thatcher?”

“Aye, lad, he ain’t one for climbing roofs, what with his leg.”

“Dare I ask who your thatcher is?

“Mr Smith, aye.”

“No.”

“Aye, lad, a horse would throw i’self away from his shoes.”

“Alright, I suppose that’s one way of putting it… er… who is the blacksmith?”

“Mr Fisher, aye.”

“No he is not!”

“I tell no lies, laddie; thy mouth could use soap an’ water, aye.”

“My apologies, then who fish—"

“The Cooper twins.”

“Incredible, my fascination urges me to roll onwards despite the rumble of my stomach.”

“Aye?”

“Aye, I mean, yes, er, who is the cooper?”

“That’d be Mr Carter.”

“Oh, of course, and I suppose he can't drive straight.”

“Aye, that be insightful, lad, can’t see his own feet; but a devil with anything up close an’ pers’nal like.”

“Indeed?”

“Aye, holds bread up to his eye an’ picks out bits of wood.”

“Well, I am sure I don’t know how that makes him good at making barrels. I’m less certain about Mr… er…”

“Mr Thatcher, aye.”

“Mr Thatcher’s bread, my thanks, I shall forgoe the bakery. Could you be so kind as to direct me to the carter?”

“Aye that’d be me, lad.”

“Oh, well how serendipitous, and you are?”

“Mr Baker, aye.”

“Yes, yes, I know. I can see the screens.”

“Yes, captain, it’s just that you seem a bit…”

“Yes.”

The captain pianoed their fingers on the armrest of their seat, watching a pale blue dot slowly grow on five of the monitors.

“Corporal?”

“Captain?”

“You were not on the last mission?”

“No, captain.”

“Do you know what happened?”

“No, captain.”

“Well, things seemed to be going well for thirty years…” The captain drifted off as the ship slid past a comet on three of the monitors. It had no tail, as of yet, but it was one of many that flung itself around the solar system they were heading toward. “And then they began their mission.”

“Captain?”

“Three years later they ended up being nailed to some wood,” said the captain, then regretted bringing up the subject, “and they were left hanging by their hands and feet until they died.”

“Captain??”

The captain winced at the outburst, and the memory. “Took us forty-three days to find their signal. Turns out the natives were under the impression they were either a terrorist or the offspring of a god, and things got out of hand.”

“But… but, captain! Why… Permission to ask a question, captain!”

“Yes, corporal?”

“Why are we going back, captain?”

“It’s been two millennia. There must have been some progress.”

“Two millennia isn’t long enough when it comes to nailing people to wood,” said the corporal, and pressed a button harder than was really necessary.

“Corporal?”

“Captain?”

“Shut up,” said the captain, not unkindly.

“Yes, captain.”