"I think that I may be the voice of my generation. Or, at least, a voice. Of a generation." This line, delivered by Lena Dunham's character, Hannah Horvath in "Girls," for a time felt indistinguishable from Dunham herself. Her rise in the early 2010s was rapid, polarizing, and hard to separate from the larger project of millennial self-mythology. 

It was also, for fellow writer Emily Gould, uncomfortably familiar. A former Gawker editor and early architect of the confessional internet voice, Gould had built her own following by writing through the same kinds of literary-adjacent anxieties, just with fewer HBO cameras and considerably less cultural capital. 

Though they once orbited the same Brooklyn circles, their relationship soon soured. In interviews and essays timed to the release of her semi-autobiographical novel "Friendship," Gould recounted a dinner party in Brooklyn Heights where Dunham, fresh from her cultural coronation, with her boyfriend in tow, allegedly dominated the room with what Gould called "elaborate PDA." 

Gould also admitted to feeling jealous of how closely Dunham's visibility mirrored a path she felt she'd helped clear. The tension escalated when Dunham's "Girls" co-showrunner Jennifer Konner tweeted disdainfully about comparisons between the two frenemies, and Dunham herself unfollowed Gould on Twitter. According to Gould, a direct message from the star followed: "You fully suck [...] I was going to promote your book but you need to get a better talk show story." 

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In 2018, a federal judge ruled that Donald Trump's Twitter account, @realDonaldTrump, functioned as a public forum. Blocking critics there, the court found that it amounted to a constitutional violation — viewpoint discrimination in the language of ruling, though something closer to pettiness in practice.

Legendary author Stephen King had already been blocked by then. The novelist, who has never made a secret of his politics, had lobbed one insult too many, though the precise wording escapes him. He suspects it involved the president's head, a compromising anatomical position, and the suggestion of yoga. As King recalled on The Late Show with Stephen Colbert, "That was it, man. That was it."

Unsurprisingly, the fallout was theatrical. King announced that, in return, Trump would be blocked from viewing "It," the latest film adaptation of one of his novels at the time, and a real buzzy blockbuster. "No balloons for Donald Trump," he laughed.

A president had silenced a novelist; the novelist answered with a clown. A carnival act is a fitting metaphor for the cultural moment. King later added that he also blocked then-Vice President Mike Pence, whom he referred to simply as "creepy."

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The feud between Truman Capote and his Swans was everything. It was a high-society imposition so dazzling, it earned itself a television series on FX — complete with couture, betrayal, and the slow-motion collapse of one of Manhattan's most glittering social ecosystems.

The "Breakfast at Tiffany's" author fashioned himself as a confidant to a rarefied set of socialites: Babe Paley, Gloria Guinness, Slim Keith, Lee Radziwill, and C.Z. Guest. These women's lives were defined by elegance and discretion, and Capote was granted a seat at their private tables. He called them his Swans — gliding as they did through society's upper reaches, concealing their efforts beneath. They offered him gossip, trust, and glamour. In return, he gave them his love and attention, and, eventually, his stab in the back.

The turning point came in 1975, with the publication of "La Côte Basque, 1965" in Esquire. Billed as an excerpt from Capote's long-gestating novel "Answered Prayers," thinly veiled versions of the Swans appeared throughout, indiscretions intact. The character based on Babe Paley's CBS executive husband was depicted in grotesque detail, complete with sexual encounters and stained bedsheets. Social confidences shared over cigarettes and martinis were now bound in print, becoming a gut-wrenching literary spectacle.

Naturally, the Swans closed ranks. Invitations stopped. Friendships dissolved overnight. Babe Paley never spoke to him again. The man who had once moved so deftly between the salons of Park Avenue and the literary salons of Manhattan found himself exiled from both.

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Few modern authors have publicly navigated the contradictions of being both canonized and criticized in real time like J.K. Rowling. The "Harry Potter" author, a once-respected literary hero, is at odds with a generation she helped raise.

Since 2018, she has drawn criticism for her remarks on gender identity, stemming from a widely-circulated essay compounding her own traumas with concerns over what she framed as the erasure of biological sex. She described her views, unapologetically, as a TERF — a trans-exclusionary radical feminist — as well as her willingness to claim it.

Daniel Radcliffe, Emma Watson, and Rupert Grint — the trio at the heart of the Hogwarts cinematic universe — each released statements expressing solidarity with trans and gender nonconforming folks.

"Transgender women are women," Radcliffe wrote on the website of the Trevor Project, an LGBTQ+ suicide prevention charity, "any statement to the contrary erases the identity and dignity of transgender people." Watson tweeted, "Trans people are who they say they are and deserve to live their lives without being constantly questioned or told they aren't who they say they are." Grint affirmed, "I firmly stand with the trans community ... we should all be entitled to live with love and without judgment."

In the years since, the division has calcified, and Rowling has shown little interest in reconciliation. Responding to a social media post about which actors ruin a movie, she replied, "Three guesses." Someone's bitter.