One thing I would quite like to do is try and reappropriate the notion of 'resentment' from a miserablist one to one based on action. The bizarre social peace of Brazilified London, a place where poor-on-poor crime occurs in shooting distance from enclaves of the super-rich is partly based on the decline in a certain form of resentment: rather than disdaining, resisting or straighforwardly hating the rich in their midst, they are either invisible or aspired-to. Resentment is the force that refuses to let its wounds heal, that remembers the old defeats in order to one day take revenge. In pop terms, it's the lunatic self-aggrandising class war of Pulp's 'I Spy', in political terms its the new revolution always being a ghostly return of the old.
There is though, I can't deny, a more dubious kind of resentment, one that is particularly virulent post-pomo. As someone who has crossed classes, as it were (a category in which, incidentally, a great many bloggers I've met could be included), there's always a chip-on-shoulder drive to know what you're talking about, to amass facts and ideas, a kind of hoarding, almost, in order to gather ammunition. This can go horribly wrong, however. Anne Massey's Hollywood Behind the Screen is a book that from its introduction tries to define itself as a defence of her working class parents' aesthetic, and it mounts an interesting but ultimately pomo-damaged defence of the populist art deco and moderne that was popular among the suburban WC and lower MC in the 20s and 30s - the opulent, glamorous pulp modernism of say, Wallis Gilbert and Partners against the supposedly elitist world of 'true' Modernism. Therein I came across an anecdote from a similarly class-mobile architect (whose name I forget) who was brought up in an Edgware suburban house, and was then told that the entire aesthetic world he gre up in was passe, tasteless, and was immediately recommended the works of Le Corbusier. Now this seems awful, and the writer in question seems full of indignation at this affront. But transfer architecture to art here, and imagine someone outraged that the paintings on his parents' walls were considered worthless by his teachers in comparison with Picasso (or Pam Ayres for Baudelaire, or whatever) - nobody would bat an eyelid. But the acceptability of architectural illiteracy enables that move, where resentment turns into mere philistinism.
There is another resentment though, the one in which as Tricky once hissed, one 'masters your language' rather than clings doggedly to one's own, or tries to valorise the mundanity of one's own former surroundings: the Material Cultures move whereby the working class everyday is always outside of politics and history and flying ducks are worth as much as Brancusi, etc. Resentment is always more complicated than this, and perhaps there should be a reclamation against the capitalist realist consensus of that supremely arch phrase that dismisses the autodidact: malcontent.