A New Yorker bulleted book. Interesting premise, and having just been in the Phoenix area, seems like a thing.
“In the mirror, he got the sense he had misplaced some part of himself yet could not identify the name of what he had lost.” Page 5.
Eclectic prose full of, full of…
“It was not uncommon for Buford Bellum to be spotted in a corner booth at the Waffle House on McDowell and Eighty-third Avenue.” Page 40.
I think I ate there, last trip. No, seriously. Not an allusion to Mel’s Diner, either. That very Waffle House. Maybe not, but it’s not like they are terribly different, each one the same.
There’s a breathless effort to the way the words tumble out. I like it. I was just there, not at that very Waffle House, but a post-pre-season repast. Waffle, toast, eggs, bacon. Perfect.
Just getting underway, it was — at first — clearly stream of consciousness story-telling, but the style, the patter, the cadence was easier to follow than say, other acknowledged masters and propagators of the art. Almost amusing, but as I’ve suggested, I was just in the area, so the sights, sites, and sounds are still fresh in my own mind.
The cadence, delivery, style, I recall one passage from Allen Ginsberg’s oeuvre.
Accessible. Just like the the Beats, but more accessible. Sharp, pointed prose.
The strength of the prose itself carried the story’s imagery far enough that I was swept away with the idea that the kid in the story was busy legally selling guns at church.
Last sentence made more sense when I was reading the book.
Really good book. Last Acts.
Last Acts
