Wednesday, May 19, 2010


Another embarrassingly laudatory review, this time in l'Express. Mysteriously posted on May 21, it says, although it is, right now, May 19.

(Note: It's positively embarrassing to be quasi-called the best living postmodern American author. WTF happened to Pynchon, DeLillo, Gass, Barth, to name a few -- alive, all of them, all of them accused of being pomo, and all of them still kicking, my friends? Plus, nobody in my country of exile gets even remotely hot&bothered by my work -- my reviews are non-existent, my sales equally so, and my speaking fee, while I still spoke, was firmly fixed at zero dollars.) (Not bitter, baby, just realistic. There is in fact much fun in being a retired author and finally reaping some favorable reviews for a book you hardly remember writing.)


Anonymous said...

["being a retired author"? never!]

Perhaps Gertrude Stein would say:
...a scribe is a scribe is a scribe... :)

A while ago, I wondered if you could ever write a novel again after OM, because it's so monumental... but, yes, you can, because the story still goes on. And it will find you.
Perhaps Shakespeare would say: Be not afraid of greatness: some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon 'em.

Paul Verhaeghen said...

Or perhaps I still have a book about a scrivener in me? (Don't think so.)

Anonymous said...

who knows? :)
...perhaps some things are not to think about, they simply happen...