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I didn't particularly enjoy any of Henry Darger's works. I get that there's an existing desire in neurotypical human societies to find the le secret outsider artist genius, but the aesthetic and packaging of 'discovering that outsider artist' is generally a more accessible and appreciable work of art than the actual work in question. For fucks sake, Realms of the Unreal is over fifteen thousand pages long!

It just goes on and on and on and on about the weather and typhoons and hurricanes all over and over again. It's as if someone printed and bound all of [...] and called it art! I'm just 133 pages into the first volume and I already want to bash my skull against my bedframe! Why do I need to know about the 110,557 Glandolinians killed to capture Jennie-Wren-Town?