David Markson

If you can do it, it ain’t bragging.

Or was it possibly nothing more than a fundamentally recognizable genre all the time, no matter what Writer averred?

Nothing more or less than a read?

Simply an unconventional, generally melancholy though sometimes even playful now-ending read?

About an old man’s preoccupations.

Dizzy Dean died of a heart attack.

Writer’s cancer.

Christ, if my love were in my arms
And I in my bed again!

Then I go out at night to paint the stars.
Says a Van Gogh letter.

Farewell and be kind.

{Ends}

No, it really does end. David Markson has died, and the above are the final words of his 2001 text this is not a novel, as republished by the always-excellent CB Editions (next-day delivery too!).