I read Jack the Modernist. (J. asked, is the title an imperative?) There’s a lot to admire, the omnivory and the light touch, but I swear to God, all this New Narrative was beamed in from some other planet where sex is somehow just itself, congruent with life, and neither a joke nor an agony. What are you supposed to do with that? (If you’d come up in a different generation, says a voice, or known earlier what you were; and well, maybe, but that thought is troubling also.)
It’s not going to be a matter of pride to find yourself so lined up with the other Glück on this score. Still, it’s strengthening to know your place, or at least believe that you know it. Bob Glück says, If you can read this without feeling anything, give up. I won’t though.