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the last time I felt something reading anything post-WWII was about a year and a half ago when I picked this up. didn't make it past the first few hundred pages because of personal reasons and I never really got back to it.
not Houellebecq, not no Knausgård or Beckett, not even Bernhard whom I consider to be a true titan of 20th c. literature, one I absolutely regret not being able to read in the original German, made as immediate an impression on me as Gaddis' condensed, surchargé, relentless prose.
In fact, of all the authors mentioned above and their underlying projects that served as both the means and ends of their respective œuvres, Gaddis' encyclopedic approach, while not as interesting as Beckett's linguistic fragmentation as catharsis or the political predictor/provocateur whoremonger Houellebecq, seems to me the most efficient.
Knausgård, just to say a few words on him and authors of the same strain en passant, the yuppie, stream-of-consciousness, refuses-to -acknowledge-they-read, or maybe even unironically chooses to not read any classics for fear of losing "voice", or some similar effeminate notion, is just that: effeminate.
I don't see how the novel as a form can progress beyond encyclopedic doorstoppers.
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Last: 11/4/2025, 3:21:31 AM