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 and grapples with the not-knowing. Staring into the abyss without blinking is serious work, but nonsense literature does a cannonball into that inky void. It refuses to treat anything with reverence. Where absurdism documents, nonsense decorates. Absurdism struggles while nonsense plays. I need nonsense literature, and 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 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. The whole point is having the freedom to make 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, etc. But nonsense lit shoves you into the driver's seat of a car with a blank road map and some crayons to fill it in. Think about David Byrne yelping "Psycho killer, qu'est-ce que c'est? Fa-fa-fa-fa, fa-fa-fa-fa-fa, fa, better" in “Psycho Killer." Lots of Talking Heads songs can be placed in the nonsense category, and they hand you a Rorschach test to project whatever the hell you want onto them. Donald Barthelme's story "The School" shows us a parade of dead classroom pets that should be tragic, but the story's deadpan delivery makes it hilarious. Or profound? Or just kinda there? It becomes whatever you need it to be, whether that's satire, an existential joke, or just a weird romp. You build the meaning.

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 meaning. When Alice meets a caterpillar who demands she recite poetry while high on mushrooms, that's just a regular Tuesday. Several of Barthelme’s stories composed entirely of fragmented conversations could be mistaken for one of my group chats.

Some floor nonsense I found

It rewires your brain 

As you read more nonsense literature, you'll start spotting patterns in the chaos. And that's because you put them there. It's like learning to read a language that doesn't exist until you invent it. Don't worry, you're not going crazy. There's just that moment when you're halfway through Alice in Wonderland and realize, "Oh, the rules here aren't broken, they're just different." 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 encourages you to toss life's riddles in the air like confetti and watch 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, "Soup Line" by Tom Busillo, and "Please, God, Don't Let Dogs Die Anymore" by Douglas Hackle.