…And now what have we here? Cadres of discerning readers, mostly male, incisive in their book sale crate digging, adherents supplicating at the altar of postmodern sprawl, have trained their eye on a forming planet still in its infancy within our authorial galaxy of ambitious doortstop novels. The planet’s name? Sergio de la Pava.
In the pursuit of exploring my own literature derived masochism, I recently tackled David Foster Wallace’s Infinite Jest, a notoriously ‘difficult’ novel. Over 900 pages of narrative combined with 300 pages of footnotes later, I have some very brief, truncated thoughts on the text. These epistles do not represent the whole of the superbly rich experience (an ongoing series into perpetuity could ma
It’s rather easy to be drawn to disaster fiction. Writers and poets task themselves with navigating and giving voice to our collective anxieties. They at once offer clarity and comfort. It’s fiction as cultural critic, as social worker for the collective psyche. It’s interpreter of events and also a proscription of remedies. It’s a balance, too.