There were echoes in there . . .
Carter Kaplan's Echoes has arrived, and its plural title "Echoes" makes me want to say "have" arrived, but I bend my will to the correct grammar and write "has."
It actually arrived some weeks ago, and I've been in a quandary about what to do with it, but don't say "read it" because I have -- in glorious bits and pieces over the past several years, as well as again, in part, since it arrived.
But what to do with it beyond reading is more the question, like, say, where to place it. It can't forever stand there like a tourist in the upcast shadow of Haruki Murakami's IQ84, hoping for that Japanese masterpiece -- situated just out of sight left of the lower-left corner -- to cast some good fortune over its way . . .
Labels: Carter Kaplan, Literature
5 Comments:
It sounds like the question of where on the bookshelf to place your copy of Echoes is as fully challenging as the question of where to place the novel in the cannon of world literature?
Or so I am telling the world.
My first line of offense is my first line of defense, and vice-versa, so I just need acquire that cannon of literature you mentioned.
Jeffery Hodges
@ @ @
I am on the edge of my seat anticipating your insights on Echoes and Emanations 7.
When I get a round tuit . . .
Jeffery Hodges
* * *
I wonder, could I possibly persuade/cajole/grovel/beg you to write about Emanations: Chorus Pleiades?
You are denying the world your insights!
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