There is this anecdote about one of the ancient skeptics (Pyrrho, Sextus Empiricus? How can one remember not to forget all those names in the long run?) who reportedly went for a walk with one of his pupils.
One of the least frequent reasons we grab the spine of a book while rummaging through shelves of either a library or a bookstore is the sole sight of the title.
Philip K. Dick. What more can be possibly said about this outlandish individual when there have already been tens of fountain pens emptied, hundreds of typewriters jammed and thousands of keyboards broken in two over his bizarre, “precise-adjectives-proof” prose?
Were I to compare Nymphomation to a wristwatch, taking into consideration fact that it is carrying a considerable weight of previous novels on its shoulders, I would call it Omega.
Let’s skinny-dip and melt into the feast of dreams served by the Vurt itself.
Sneezing our way through the ‘dancefloor’ of Pollen, we notice that Noon is definitely – if I may wink a little – in his morning hours – crisp, brisk, bright and straight.
Today we are going to dance. The party starts at noon sharp and is scheduled to end – if at all – well beyond each and every until of eternity.
What is so momentous about the general mnemonic mementos in The Discovery of Heaven, then?
Georges Perec’s Life a User’s Manual, a marvelous specimen of the Oulipean style itself, is a work which not only confirms that the writing still has it, but also exemplifies the unquenchable thirst for the unknown to burst straight out of it like…
Yet tell me, My Dear Platinum-eyed Reader, if it is conceivable for the never-ending divinity of letters to corrupt or get desecrated? And is it possible to forget the story which never ends?
There is no denying that I would enter a vapid land of infertile thought and mundane repetitiveness, were I
Let’s imagine a book which ceases to be a book. Of course it possesses all the physical characteristics a so-called “typical novel”…