I don't care who you are, or what you do. I don't care if we still hang out from time to time or if I haven't seen you in a year. Buy Danielewski's novels. Buy them and love them and read them and love them more and then read them again and then call me and tell me what the hell is going on.
I finally figured out his first novel, House of Leaves. Should you care for an explanation, too bad. This puzzle was finally pieced together after two straight reads and one follow-up "scan."
The newer one, Only Revolutions, turns the conventional novel format on its head. Literally. While it's doing that, it employs a linguistic style i've only ever encountered once before, in Priscilla Marron's short short story My Dear How Dead You Look and Yet You Sweetly Sing, which has always perplexed and slightly terrified me.
Mark D. is one of those authors (like Chuck Palahniuk, whom I adore) that you just shouldn't read while trying to write a story of your own. The power of the work is such that you'll inevitably be drawn to imitate the inimitable and it will show. Guess that means I won't be writing for the next two weeks or so.
Yeah, that's right. Two weeks. For those of you that know how I read, that alone should be testament to the complexity of Only Revolutions.
By the way, it's not Only Revolutions. It's also a spiral.
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