One of the more interesting things about writing criticism for many years is that from time to time I am called upon to revisit a particular author or development, at which point I usually discover not only how much my tastes and inclinations have changed, but also that my subjects have refused to stay embalmed in the mummy-wrap of what I used to think. This has been borne out most vividly recently, as I have been asked to venture a concise overview assessment of the state of American literature -- fiction and poetry -- in the new millennium.

Ever the overworked opportunist, I returned first to a reflective survey essay I had written just over a decade ago entitled "The Talent in the Room." The intent of that piece had been very similar -- to spotlight the major trends and talents in the world of literary fiction. My hope was to salvage at least the foundation and frame of the former structure. Alas, as soon as I began reading I saw that it was not to be. Somehow, while I'd had my eye on the foreground action, reviewing this and that writer, the background had quite steadily -- and surprisingly -- shifted.

In that earlier essay, bouncing off polemics by Norman Mailer (his own 1959 essay, "Evaluations -- Quick and Expensive Comments on the Talent in the Room"), as well as Tom Wolfe's rabble-rousing "Stalking the Billion-Footed Beast: A Literary Manifesto for the New Social Novel," published in Harper's in 1989, I had concluded that contemporary American fiction was in a state of retreat. As more and more writers found themselves unable to deal convincingly with a radically transformed postmodern electronic society, there was a large-scale movement to a simpler world-picture. Instead of taking on the urban information culture, novelists and short story writers went toward rural and small-town subject matters, taking either minimalist or maximalist approaches.

I considered in this context, among others, Russell Banks, Richard Ford, Ann Tyler, Ann Beattie, William Kennedy, John Updike, Sue Miller, and Joyce Carol Oates, all of them presenting powerful versions of American experience, but none of them addressing -- so I thought -- the subject I then deemed central. There were exceptions, of course, notably Don DeLillo, Thomas Pynchon, Robert Stone, Richard Powers, Paul Auster, Toni Morrison, and Paul West, writers I saw as more attuned in their work to the vibrations of these transformations. But even taking these exceptions into account, my overall assessment was guardedly pessimistic.

Ascent of the New Generation
I am fascinated and heartened by how much has changed in the 10-plus years since I wrote "The Talent in the Room," though the change has come not by way of revolutionary insurgency but more by incremental shifts and displacements. It has been a matter of younger talents coming of age -- sensibilities more schooled in the new, postmodern way of things -- and older writers in many cases ceding their long-held places in the spotlight.

The biggest transformation, I would say, has been the ascendancy of a new generation of highly ambitious writers who are at once panoramic in their impulses and attuned to our collective arrival in a hypercomplex and polyglot info-culture. The best known of these is probably novelist Jonathan Franzen, whose The Corrections, a highly articulate and many-stranded story of two generations of the Midwestern Lambert family, rode the 2001 best-seller lists for many months. The author reminded serious readers everywhere that it was possible to tell a page-turning good story while honoring the fractured complexity of life in our post-everything era.

Other highly visible and critically respected members of Franzen's 40-something generation include the prolific polymath Richard Powers. Powers followed Plowing the Dark, his seventh novel, an exploration of the implications of virtuality (the digital stimulation of "reality") with The Time of Our Singing in 2003, a mammoth saga of a mixed-race family that fused music, racial politics, and theoretical physics. There is also Jeffrey Eugenides, author of the generational angst-classic The Virgin Suicides, whose newest novel, Middlesex (2002), combines elaborate historical sequences with the coming-of-age travails of a transsexual. David Foster Wallace remains for many younger readers the standard-bearer of the new ethos of fragmentation and cultural displacement; his leviathan novel Infinite Jest (1996) is the benchmark work, what Thomas Pynchon's Gravity's Rainbow was for readers a few decades back, while the more recent stories of Brief Interviews With Hideous Men immerse the reader in disturbingly obsessive personalities.

Slightly younger talents include Rick Moody, who writes with serious reach in various genres, including the short story (Demonology), the novel (Purple America), and the memoir (The Black Veil), as well as Colson Whitehead, the young African-American novelist who, after marking his edgily whimsical debut with The Intuitionist, a novel about an elevator inspector, joined the maximalist cadre with John Henry Days, a broadly conceived satire of present-day race relations in collision with the culture of media boosterism. David Eggers scored a tremendous popular success a few years back with his energetic hybrid novel/memoir A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius, which fused a personal confessional impulse with the narrative licentiousness of fiction.

A.M. Homes, Joanna Scott, and Helen DeWitt, three women writing determinedly outside the domestic pigeonhole (old stereotypes live on), match their male colleagues in inventiveness and a willingness to take on the zeitgeist, though none has achieved the popular success of Alice Sebold (The Lovely Bones), Janet Fitch (White Oleander), or Ann Packer (The Dive From Clausen's Pier) -- each one, interestingly, a novel that turns on the premise of a traumatic loss.

An Internationalist Perspective
Another conspicuous trend-shift worth remarking on has been the infusion of an internationalist perspective and subject matter into the literary mainstream. Chinese-born novelist and story-writer Ha Jin, in Waiting and, recently, The Crazed, has opened the door to narratives from the period of China's Cultural Revolution. Ukrainian-American Askold Melnyczuk, in Ambassador of the Dead, makes vivid the surfacing of suppressed World War II horrors in the lives of two families of Ukrainian-Americans, while Sarajevo-born immigrant Aleksandar Hemon, author of the story collection The Question of Bruno, in his novel Nowhere Man plies between past and present in the life of a young Sarajevan man living in present-day Chicago. Chang-rae Lee, in A Gesture Life, subtly dramatizes the life of a Korean-born Japanese man living in America and trying to evade the ghosts of his compromised past. Pulitzer Prize-winner Jhumpa Lahiri, in Interpreter of Maladies, and Junot Diaz, in Drown, are among several younger writers who use the short story form to study the complex frictions that come with living in the ethnic divide, Indian-American and Dominican-American, respectively.

A similar impulse -- only expressed through reversed perspectives -- is found in novels like Arthur Phillips's Prague and Jonathan Safran Foer's best-selling Everything Is Illuminated, both of which probe lives in other cultures from the vantage of Americans living and traveling abroad. Where Phillips refracts our recent cultural period through the experiences of a group of American expatriates living abroad -- not in Prague, in fact, but in Budapest (the novel's little joke) -- Foer depicts the encounter of a young American traveler (named Jonathan Safran Foer) with the ancestral past in contemporary Ukraine.

These several developments stand out against what remains a powerful mainstream continuity. The various modes of American realism continue to find strong representation in the works of writers like Richard Ford, William Kennedy, Sue Miller, Ward Just, Andre Dubus III, Peter Matthiessen, and Philip Roth (whose recent trilogy comprising American Pastoral, I Married a Communist, and The Human Stain stands as one of the signal accomplishments of the past decade). No less "real" but stylistically more elaborate variations are presented in works by Annie Proulx and Cormac McCarthy, as well as John Updike, William Vollmann, and others.

Of the making of lists there is no end. At certain points the broader typologies break down and one starts ticking off the sui generis talents: the more assertively experimental stylists like Robert Coover, David Markson, Mary Robison, and George Saunders; the divergently uncanny storytellers like Paul Auster, Paul West, Mark Slouka, Howard Norman, Charles Baxter, Douglas Bauer, Jonathan Dee, Allen Kurzweil, Alan Lightman, Michael Chabon, Margot Livesey, Maureen Howard, T.C. Boyle, and Ann Patchett; the voice-driven southerners like Padgett Powell, Lewis Nordan, Jill McCorkle, Elizabeth Cox, Lee Smith, Nancy Lemann, Barry Hannah, Donna Tartt, and Ellen Gilchrist. There should be a separate slot for the astonishing magnifications of the ordinary by Nicholson Baker, from his debut novel, The Mezzanine, to the recent A Box of Matches, which built a whole narrative out of a middle-aged man's early morning musings by his fireplace. Have I forgotten anyone? Dozens, hundreds -- I'm certain. Anyone who ventures to survey must prepare to live with a haunting sense of omission.

The Languages of Poetry
The poetry scene is configured by a similar plurality of modes, but what feels like abundance and variety in the world of fiction feels to many poets I've spoken with like a frustrating balkanization. A few years ago, the major division of camps was between the "formalists" and exponents of various kinds of "free" verse. The situation feels somewhat different now, with the split coming more between poets who use language in referential ways -- pointing out at our common world -- and those for whom language is its own self-created realm. The latter include the very visible John Ashbery and his many followers, and poets influenced by Jorie Graham, who puts the dynamic process of perception at the core of her expression. In their near vicinity, we find the poets of the experimental L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E school, including Michael Palmer, Charles Bernstein, and Lyn Hejinian, who in her long poem Oxota writes lines such as: "It's the principle of connection not that of causality which saves us from a bad infinity/ The word hunt is not the shadow of an accident."

The more directly referential poets branch out in a number of directions. There are the older inheritors of modernism, like former Poet Laureate Robert Pinsky, Frank Bidart, Louise Glück, Charles Simic, and C.K. Williams.

Alongside them we find a cluster, mainly younger, of poets espousing a somewhat less historically conditioned idiom, including Tom Sleigh, Alan Shapiro, Rosanna Warren, Gail Mazur, and Yusef Komunyakaa on the one hand, and more formally inflected poets like William Logan, Dana Gioia (recently named as head of the National Endowment for the Arts), Brad Leithauser, Glyn Maxwell, Debora Greger, and Mary Jo Salter, on the other.

On other branches we point to more personally declarative poets like Marie Howe, Mark Doty, and Sharon Olds; the benign and lightly surreal Billy Collins, our current Poet Laureate; and the less benign, more somberly funny Stephen Dobyns. A longer survey would find ways to place the work of Thomas Lux and David Lehman, as well as the powerful singular expressions of older, more established poets such as Adrienne Rich, Robert Bly, Donald Hall, Thom Gunn, and David Ferry.

The Serious Reader Remains
Turning from poetry to the big picture of the literary world, it is safe to assert that transformations in the social and economic world have had their impact. In publishing, as in most things, money calls the dance, and the recent fiscal downturn, combined with the ongoing tendency toward corporate conglomeration (with its attendant squeeze on the "bottom line" of profits), has put pressure on small-returns literary projects. Authors have a more difficult time breaking in; editors have to work much harder to persuade their superiors to take on books that don't promise substantial sales. The old expectations, fostered when publishing was the domain of independent houses, are no longer -- the independents have all but vanished.

At the same time, the bourgeoning electronic culture has made its inroads. While the much-touted electronic book (the handheld device that was to revolutionize reading) never caught on -- indeed, was a major fizzle, confounding pundits everywhere -- there is little question that ever more sophisticated entertainments (video, DVD, and the like) have made inroads into our reading lives, and, of course, we hear regular laments about the shrinking away of seriousness.

On the other hand -- always there's that "other hand" -- worthy books continue to be written, published, promoted, and read, and breakout best-sellers like The Corrections and The Lovely Bones remind everyone in the business that the avid serious reader has not disappeared. If the broader trend is toward more glitzy entertainments, we must nevertheless remark the steady proliferation of book clubs and reading groups. Dire predictions are risky, and except those that pertained to the coming of the horseless carriage, they usually have been exaggerated.

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Sven Birkerts is the author of six books, including The Gutenberg Elegies: The Fate of Reading in an Electronic Age and My Sky Blue Trades, a recently published memoir.