/lit/ - Literature

Bacon has always been for the lowest common denominator. Paintings oversalted with sensationalist imagery, blackened in sections to give his thin visions the appearance of texture and depth; but those with good taste can tell what they are: flimsy slices of surreality, hacked into being by a butcher of beauty, by a master of edge if of nothing else. They sizzle and pop from the heat of his scandals, not from their own inner fire. They attract the uncultivated mob, who grab and fart as their big bellies rumble, as if crying out: 'Give us more Bacon!'
Do they not know that the thing for which they hanker can provide them with no real nourishment? Do they not know its all spice and no substance, slabs of fat with hardly an ounce of real meat?
Believe me. In a few decades, once the thick smoke enshrouding the man and his work has finally cleared, people will be embarassed to admit they ever indulged their disgusting, lowbrow appetite for Bacon.

Any books with a Francis Bacon vibe?