Who would have thought a 1992 book by a writer who described himself as “a fat old asthmatic Glaswegian who lives by painting and writing” would be in the mix for Best Picture in 2024?
I've gotten physically assaulted by anti-trans psychos twice in the last few months, but... like the limo driver in The Big Lebowski, I can't complain.
The sensibility of Gen Z is uncritical and anti-intellectual, assuming that everyone suffers from crippling anxiety and trauma, a sensitivity which any criticism might imperil.