You know the feeling you have when you approach the end of a book you’ve been loving—that feeling of wanting to finish it, but not wanting it to end? That’s me, right now, in spades.
But you have finished it, Blanche, you have. (some obscure reference to Seinfeld, Baby Jane, Bette Davis, Bette Davis channeling H.L. Mencken? Perhaps leading to Kevin Bacon, so degreed my separation)
Separation anxiety aside, I still have several Marksons to wallow in, even the poems (sadly, I lack the $90, 50-year-old Dell paperback of Miss Doll, Go Home This Is Not a Tragedy: The Works of David Markson should arrive soon, and the old codger even has me considering Malcolm Lowry. Bastard.
If I were able, I’d give the tetralogy to everyone on my GR friend list, and to everyone whose reviews I follow, and even those who (for whatever unknowable reason) follow my reviews. But, alas, …
From the novel:
Wondering if there is any viable way to convince critics never to use the word tetralogy without also adding that each volume can be readily read by itself?There is, and I have, because I owe you that much.
And a final quote:
Novelist’s personal genre. In which part of the experiment is to continue keeping him offstage to the greatest extent possible—while compelling the attentive reader to perhaps catch his breath when things achieve an ending nonetheless.Yet here I sit, still breathless.