Nonsense Literature and Why You Gotta Read It

Nonsense literature is a lot like absurdism, but the two genres stare into the void in different ways. Absurdism sits with meaninglessness like a monk in meditation. It leans into the discomfort, studies its contours, and grapples with the not-knowing. It’s serious work, this business of staring into the abyss without blinking. But nonsense literature does a cannonball into it. It’s not that it doesn’t see the void—it just refuses to treat it with reverence. Where absurdism documents, nonsense decorates. Where absurdism struggles, nonsense plays. I don't just like nonsense literature. I need it. So do you. Here are a few reasons why:

Some doll nonsense I made

Nonsense sets your brain free  In a world that demands hot takes and content optimized for engagement, nonsense literature is an act of rebellion. It's art that refuses to explain itself. It cracks jokes without punchlines, and tells stories that meander like a drunken philosopher. Take the Mad Hatter’s infamous riddle: “Why is a raven like a writing desk?” Carroll admitted he had no answer in mind, but that hasn’t stopped readers from inventing their own (my favorite: “Because Poe wrote on both”). The point isn’t the solution; it’s the delirious freedom of making one up. 

It's the only genre that trusts you  Most literature treats you like a tourist: here's the theme, here's the symbolism, don't touch the artifacts. Nonsense shoves you into the driver's seat of a car with no brakes. When David Byrne yelps "Fa-fa-fa-fa-fa-fa-fa-fa-fa-far better!" in “Psycho Killer,” he's not giving you a thesis statement. He's handing you a Rorschach test and a permission slip to project whatever the hell you want onto it. 

Donald Barthelme's story "The School" does this so well. A parade of dead classroom pets should be tragic, but the story's deadpan delivery makes it hilarious. Or is it profound? Or just kinda there? It refuses to be sad or moralizing. Instead, it becomes whatever you need it to be: a satire, an existential joke, or just a weird romp. The meaning isn’t handed to you; you build it.

Chaos feels more honest than realism  Ever had a day where you: 

• Saw a pigeon fight a hot dog wrapper? 

• Cried in a CVS looking at the thirty-nine kinds of toothpaste?

• Tried to actually talk to someone at an airport but got thwarted by fourteen phone-tree menus?

• Looked at TikTok for more than five seconds?

Nonsense lit is the only genre that captures that specific flavor of modern absurdity without trying to sand it down into a plot. When Alice meets a caterpillar who demands she recite poetry while high on mushrooms, it's not fantasy, it's Tuesday. Barthelme’s several stories composed entirely of fragmented conversations? That's not experimental fiction. That's my group chat. 

Some floor nonsense I found

It rewires your brain 

Here's the dirty secret: nonsense isn't non-sense. It's new sense. The more you read it, the more you start spotting patterns in the chaos—not because they're there, but because you put them there. It's like learning to read a language that doesn't exist until you invent it. That moment when you're halfway through Alice in Wonderland and realize, "Oh, the rules here aren't broken, they're just different"? That's not comprehension. That's initiation. Welcome to the club. The password is flibbitybop, and we meet never. Or we’re always meeting. Whatever. Talk to the hand, circle gets the square, bananaphone.

Nonsense literature isn't about solving life's riddles—it's about tossing them in the air like confetti and watching where they land. While the rest of us are out here drowning in five-year plans and productivity hacks, nonsense writers wink and say: "What if we stopped pretending any of this makes sense?" And honestly, that might be the most sensible approach.

For some great examples of nonsense literature we’ve published, check out "My Giraffe" by Lexi Franciszkowicz, "To Rundle the Parlous Hoon" by Matthew Amati, and "Soup Line" by Tom Busillo.