I do want us to get on. So let me tell you that I do feel that postmodern literature and its antecedents from Laurence Sterne to Herman Melville is actually the most adept at handling my relationship with my parents, my deep-seated sense of personal shame, as well as my unusually inflated fears and addictions

You’re wrong there.

Literature of other kinds simply doesn't do it for me in the same way.

I’m not talking about other kinds of literature—although War and Peace, Women in Love, the Tenth Purana, The Divine Comedy, East of Eden, The Tropic of Capricorn, King Lear and so on offer far more by way of psychological insight than Nabokov, Kafka and Conrad will: Melville is a bit more human though). I’m talking about reality and approaching reality non-intellectually, with your whole heart, all senses open: seeking the truth of the context with your whole being and acting on that indisputable truth.

Can’t talk to a pretty girl on the bus? Can’t tell your parents, straight, what they mean to you, or get over their demands? Premature ejaculation or impotence? Can’t stop thinking about something? Can’t stop eating, using porn, playing video games, using the internet, worrying, worrying, worrying? Anxious, depressed, irritable, ashamed, deeply bored, cut-off somehow from life? The idea that postmodernism, one of the most superficial ideologies the world has ever produced, can solve these problems is laughable.

Although I wouldn't mind an acknowledgement that you're not being entirely fair in departing from my attempt to justify the postmodern project to you.

It is fruitless to argue about ideologies. I understand postmodernism perfectly well, just as I do Christianity and Islam. I don’t debate the truth within the framework of postmodernism, for the same reason I don’t argue about God with a Christian. I have better things to do with my life.