You can click that image to enlarge, but allow me to zoom in on the crucial detail:
The titles listed under Hipster Lit are:
“King Rat,” by China Miéville.
“2666,” by Roberto Bolaño.
“The Gospel According to Jesus Christ,” by José Saramago.
“House of Leaves,” by Mark Z. Danielewski.
“High Fidelity,” by Nick Hornby.
“Elliot Allagash,” by Simon Rich.
“Scorch Atlas,” by Blake Butler.
“Horoscopes for the Dead: Poems,” by Billy Collins.
“Illuminations,” by Arthur Rimbaud.
“Civilwarland in Bad Decline,” by George Saunders.
“Siddhartha,” by Herman Hesse.
“Lush Life,” by Richard Price.
“A Young Man’s Guide to Late Capitalism,” by Peter Mountford.
“The New York Trilogy,” by Paul Auster.
I think this is a very good selection of hipster lit, though I can already hear the banshees howling that it’s incomplete. Where is Eggers? Where’s D.F.W.? Where’s Murakami? (Op! He’s on the shelf above, which I believe belonged to the plain old “literature” section.) Where are Lydia Davis, Miranda July, and Vendela Vida? Why are there no female authors?*
A few points:
