The Weird lives in the terrifying space between apprehension and comprehension.
I have felt the siren call to have post-slop-viewing "conversations."
only to realize that works of art have become assets, mere vehicles of investment and speculation...
There seems to be not much of a point, or perhaps the point is that the point is not the point.
Texts are places where the past is passed on.
The overall structure really is like a skeleton.
A proliferation of activity that left much the same; the machine whirred on the same spot.
Huck Finn may be a dream, Fiedler notes, but it is a nightmare.
Abandoned in a canyon of smuggled ancillary detail.
Reading the novel feels like spooning a live wire.
The end of style, when it ends, is a post on a dejected, impassable frontier. It is the beginning of something wider and colder, and it will have no name.
Robinson wants abstract "philosophical concepts" to "deal an equally devastating blow" in the concrete (class) struggle.