Simplifying to the extreme, I define postmodern as incredulity toward metanarratives.

…is postmodernity the pastime of an old man who scrounges in the garbage-heap of finality looking for leftovers, who brandishes unconsciousnesses, lapses, limits, confines, goulags, parataxes, non-senses, or paradoxes, and who turns this into the glory of his novelty, into his promise of change?

...The sublime feeling is not mere pleasure as taste is – it is a mixture of pleasure and pain... Confronted with objects that are too big according to their magnitude or too
violent according to their power, the mind experiences its own limitations.

A work can become modern only if it is first postmodern. Postmodernism thus understood is not modernism at its end but in the nascent state, and this state is constant.

He wondered why he wasn't as in love with her as he was with...Hector had only shared enjoyment with (her)...he shared everything, enjoyment and sorrow...but for some time now they'd shared too much frustration, boredom and fatigue.

If you would tell me the heart of a man, tell me not what he reads, but what he rereads.