Sublime

Jean-Louis Curtis est totalement oublié aujourd'hui. Il a écrit une quinzaine de romans, des nouvelles, un recueil de pastiches extraordinaire… La France m'épuise contient, à mon avis, les pastiches les plus réussis de la littérature française : ses imitations de Saint-Simon, de Chateaubriand sont parfaites ; il se débrouille très bien aussi avec S

Infinite Jest had been driven by his dysfunctional yearning for Mary Karr;

“Vonnegut, in his fiction, is doing what the most serious writers always do. He is helping, in Joyce’s phrase, ‘to create the conscience of the race.’ What race? Human certainly, not American or German or any other abstraction from humanity. Just as pure romance provides us with necessary psychic exercise, intellectual comedy like Vonnegut’s

pernicious

The grandeur of my physique, the complexity of my worldview, the decency and taste implicit in my carriage, the grace with which I function in the mire of today’s world—all of these at once confuse and astound Clyde. Now he has relegated me to working in the French Quarter, an area which houses every vice that man has ever conceived in his wildest

Life was like that, Unk told himself tentatively— blanks and glimpses, and now and then maybe that awful flash of pain for doing something wrong.