There are streets in Portland, Oregon - neighborhoods under the rainy trees, houses, sidewalks - where the utterest peace resides. Equanimous folk, in love with dogs, nurse-cradled by certain forms of music, rendered ablissed by certain wines and fulsome conversation. Add as one may: currant spreads and morning toast, a quiet half hour with coffee and newspaper, the sound of rain and the light of sunbeams. Here live Carrie and Evan and Rice. Napping in a hammock.
From cracks in the flooring seep:
invidiousness,
hate,
blackmail,
inheritance,
desecration,
and slaughter.
so that unusual love is murdered once again.
It would therefore appear that Ken Chowder has stopped writing novels.
2 comments:
I like this very much. Is this a stand-alone piece or part of something bigger?
Brother Ectric,
I've made some remarks about Chowder's other books at Ulysses' Friezes (and remarks are not literature), and I'm now reading all of David Markson in anticipation of more remarks. But I have a feeling that Chowder's done with the novel form, unless prose in new clothes comes up from behind and gets its mitts on him.
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