the book presents the odd spectacle of a more interesting writer admiring the work of a less interesting writer. It is the complete reverse of the Sontag book
An impressively miserable lot, to be sure, but once Sebald advances from the general to the particular, distortions emerge in his gloomy but picturesque vision...
In Generation X, the characters draw close to each other through telling stories. In Burnside, the stories have been replaced by rumors.
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.