The Dead do not Improve
It’s the dulcet and sonorous tones of language gently sewn together with gossamer threads of MFA authors. A school of thought, intricate, high-brow, literate literature.
Still fun, despite the long sentences, and just looking forward to the new Cormac McCarthy material that was on the horizon, hyped, but not yet released.
The Dead do not Improve is more of a romp, with the author’s name an echo from something previous. First blush, I’d compare to Pynchon’s Inherent Vice, which in my mind was slightly lugubrious in styled prose, but like faded photograph an unclear memory.
It’s been close to a dozen years since I’ve been on foot in San Francisco, not that many downtowns change much, but the book is also a decade old, so it toys with distant memories.
Not the way they are, but the way they were.
There’s a poetic elegance, like freestyle free-verse, clicking along with rhythm, reading. Train wheels clicking over train tracks.
“No miserable fuck wants to wake up one morning and realize that salvation is just an easy twelve-step jaunt down a path that’s been obvious the entire time.” Page 72.
So true.
Thoughtful, artful approach to current events even a decade distant.
How does one cope with mass casualty events? I’m sorry I missed this then, but even now, almost more topical in the wake of school shootings.
The Dead do not Improve
