Review


I read you on the bus, so compartmental and engaging. You stick your neck out eschewing the classic novel, or even the semblance of plot. Instead of a circular plot around your conceptual hat you are a plaited cord, awkward but necessary. However, I jostle you, you say you're about style but, no, I replace the word "style" with "form" every time, stepping on your toes until you become enraged and escape, cowardly, to an empty seat, pouting. Well, little book, you can be about whatever you want to be about.

Two hours later I observe on Goodreads that another reader remarks as well upon your vocabulary insufficiency: just raise the word "style" to "form" and you would be the profoundest overcoat of them all, baring Gogol.