The Last Novel

By David Markson, fun, fun, fun.  Excerpt:

Curiously impressed by the fact that Auden paid everyone of his bills — electric, phone, whatever — on the same day that it arrived.


We evaluate artists by how much they are able to rid themselves of convention.
Said Richard Serra.

Is this a novel or a book of aphorisms?  Could it be a set of blog posts spread out over 190 pp.?  Who cares, I finished it.  Or:

A woman’s body is not a mass of flesh in a state of decomposition, on which the green and purplish spots denote a complete of cadaveric putrefaction.
An early critics presumed to inform Renoir.


Auden's bill-paying habits were probably related to his being a miser. He always warned his guests to economize on toilet paper.

Always enjoyed Markson a lot and got this book when it came out. If you've never read anything else by him, Reader's Block and Wittgenstein's Mistress are also excellent.

Why do you suppose reviews of this and the three
previous books in Markson's current cycle repeatedly
cite the artistic and literary anecdotes but
ignore those having to do with baseball?

Comments for this post are closed