This first post of mine is short by necessity. Because, alas, I am about to fall asleep on my keyboard over here in Stupid 9-5 Jobs Land. Which means this will also probably be lacking in cohesion and comprehension.
My initial instinct is to ask: HOLY SHIT DID YOU FINISH YET AND DECODE THE LAST PARAGRAPH I MEAN GODDAMN SHIT SON. Because THAT just about broke my brain into a thousand little, itty-bitty, micro-pieces that I will never be able find again.
In other news: I loved the first section. I’m still not really sure what to expect of his other works because this piece was just so packed with themes and parallels and tiny sentences that were big deals (perhaps that is just the nature of shorter works). But this:
I looked up at the eaves of the adjacent garage with its full
display of transparent stalactites backed by their blue
silhouettes, I was rewarded at last, upon choosing one, by the
sight of what might be described as the dot of an exclamation
mark leaving its ordinary position to glide down very fast-- a
jot faster than the thaw-drop it raced. This twinned twinkle
was delightful but not completely satisfying; or rather it only
sharpened my appetite for other tidbits of light and shade, and
I walked on in a state of raw awareness that seemed to
transform the whole of my being into one big eyeball rolling in
the world's socket.
Dude. You were right about the language. Even apart from the fact that this is a Russian guy writing a story in English from the perspective of a French narrator teaching French in 1950’s “America” (which is such a weird confluence of linguistic levels I had to laugh), the style alone could have made me miss everything else he was saying in favor of just listening to the words and the rhythm.
Also he has this great combination of serious poetic imagery going on, contrasted with what seems to be to be a very dry and cryptic sense of humor.
“one big eyeball rolling in the world’s socket”?
…I promise to be more articulate about this in the morning. >_>