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Because the music of the prose may contain not only a story’s emotional center, but also its narrative thrust. No way could I have expressed the totality or intensity of Henry’s experience through an essayistic recitation of events, though recite them I did.
No, the only way to truly convey his experience — in a full-body sense — was to get at it through that dark, mad, rapturous build that is typically associated with music.
Add to that a forward thrust that builds in scale and intensity and you’ve got, in my view, the world’s most effective, most beautiful, art form — a full-body, narrative experience. Not because I think musical prose is cool or will win me awards, but because breaking through to the music of a sentence, the rapturous build of paragraphs, pages, and chapters, is thrilling.
(No wonder Pat Metheny called his greatest album, , or his greatest song, “Are You Going With Me? How else to gauge whether or not you’ve hit the mark except by that stinger of thrill? So in general, I do always write like I did in Glamshack’s first draft was akin to clinging to the hot wet mane of a horse that’s just bolted through the woods (something I did during the pre consequence-awareness years).
I’d hesitate to call his style “maximalist,” but mostly because that term connotes its antonym more than its own denotative and connotative parameters.
However, I will readily admit that I always enjoy encountering writers, like Paul, who are willing to leave the safe (normalized) path of taciturn lyricism so synonymous with American prose of “literary quality.” Such writers don’t have to be pioneers, or Adams, or Eves. Is love eternal, or is it only as mortal as we are?
(I sense an essential 90s-ish-ness in it all, but, then again, I was there, I remember, and the remembering is fresh, i.e., I’ve not encountered a story that has made me remember this time in a long time.) On a personal level the nineties, for me, was a time of wildness, of acting without “appropriate” concern for consequences, which then shifted into a time of settling, of a sudden fearsome awareness of being existentially (and financially) untethered.
And yet, I also reject this binary (and very contemporary) view.They just have to be willing to let the authority of their authorship disappear into the under- and overgrowth of our national consciousness. represents an audacious attempt to reilluminate these mysteries, but not by means of a paparazzo’s flash, or stagy Klieg lights, or a forensic lamp’s long waves — not to mention without reigniting the tinder-dry detritus that’s accumulated around them.After all, that’s where the big, shadowy, beastly questions lurk. When this novel’s glare isn’t undulating, it’s lurching.Which is to say that it’s never far from a trembling best described as torch-like.The following questions and answers were exchanged between July and August of 2017.
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In this way, I suppose, diverges from the social realism of much contemporary fiction, and one might call the book something of a classical throwback, though if I’ve done what I set out to do, one would be hard pressed to name it at all. My answer is in two parts and, you’ve probably guessed by now, those parts are on some level contradictory.