Saturday, June 19, 2010
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.
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.
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!).