I mean, for Chrast’s sake, what are you on about?

Of all the high-functioning-but-depressive-on-the-margins avant garde belletrist readers one might ask for, Markson - who knew every taut curve of every limb of Wittgenstein’s mistress - might be the most ideal for Bill, whose letters to his mother his most ardent fans have tattooed on the wan skin of their solar plexus. I will not attend the funeral of the English major, but I will forever burn sage at the altar of whatever contemporary analog might spill over into this black and white imbroglio.