Half of this book isn't written down. It's in the reader's head. It is different for each reader. If nothing else, it is certainly more than the sum of its parts. This is not surprising considering its 'parts' are scarcely more than random facts.

The premise is simple: an author is reorganizing a stack of index cards, each of which bears a factoid. He has them pretty much in the order he likes, and this is what you, the reader, are presented with.

But it is what goes on in your head while reading these 'cards' that makes the book. Weirdly, it is every bit as addictive as it is plotless. By some mystery of literary mastery, it all makes perfect and coherent sense in the end. The truth you are left with is long-lasting, and would shake even the stoniest of hearts.

It is a credit to the author-- the book's true author-- that he has accomplished so much with little more than what seems to be an experiment in the employment of excessive non-sequitors. However, I suppose that in order to be a master of prose as Markson is hailed, one would have to be a master in its deconstruction as well. ( )

Blown away. Loved this book.

Not sure I would have gotten as much out of it w/out Wikipedia though... ( )

By far the bleakest of the four. About getting older and, I guess, getting to the point that you'd previously seen someone disappear at (off in the distance) and finding yourself uncertain about where to go from there. ( )

The book is 191 pages long, containing exactly 1927 anecdotes
which happens to be the year Author was born.

Reviewer made that bit up, about the number of anecdotes.
But not the bit about Author being born.

What was it Author quotes Anatole France as having said on page thirty-one?

Brahms was forty-three before he completed his first symphony.
A symphony is no joke--unquote,
says Author on page twenty-four.

Vanishing Point.
This Is Not a Novel.

Reviewer is intrigued that this novel reads like a collection of tweets.
A novel which was written by hand on notecards.
Then after many revisions, typewritten.

Seven wealthy towns contend for Homer dead,
Through which the living Homer begged his bread.
quotes Author on page eighty-three.

The thought occurs to Reviewer that he has read the words of this book many times before.
Just not in this order.

Witter Gitter Man, Prof, Vicky, Herr Sinckel-Winckel.
Names Wittgenstein was called.

Death and art and petty egos, this book is about.
And grammatical inversions.

The mackerel-crowded seas
mentioned on page one-eighteen.

Wittgenstein's Vienna. Wittgenstein's Nephew. Wittgenstein's Ladder. Wittgenstein's Poker.
Recites Author on page one-seventy-five.

He forgot Wittgenstein's Mistress.

What was it Marianne Moore said about omissions?

A great novel...unless you're in the mood to read a novel.
Says one Goodreads reviewer.

Henry James Salon, on Peachtree Street, Atlanta GA.

Artists and madness, artists and death, artists and money, artists and myth
Is it only this Reviewer’s wish that Author was less preoccupied with artists?

Or is the artist some kind of representative?

Vanishing Point.
Not a Memoir.

Echoes. Reverberations.
For pointillism to work, some of the points must be less pronounced.

Virginia Woolf’s quote about her intended suicide on page one-sixty-eight.

Anecdote about Kurt Vonnegut’s cunning on page one-seventy-one.
Praise on the back cover, Vonnegut’s.

The fact that Ingmar Bergman and Michelangelo Antonioni died the same day.

Voice of Author in Reviewer’s head.
Reviewer wonders if he’ll be able to think again in non-discreet units.

Reviewer is illiterate.
In all languages but one.

Charles Darwin was known to slice a fat book in half, to make it easier to handle.
Or to rip out any sections he was not interested in.

That lump, Ezra Pound called Robert Lowell.

Why is it Reviewer can’t keep himself out of this review
As much as Author can’t keep himself out of this book?

We can say nothing but what has been said; the composition and method is ours only.
Author says Burton says.

You mean Wally wrote poetry?
A colleague of Wallace Stevens’ remarked upon the poet’s death.

Far off I heard the orchestra tuning their instruments.
Says someone.

Selah. ( )

I am not, I repeat not, a fan of experimental books. The only reason I picked this up at the library was because it was on Boxall's "1001 Books You Must Read Before You Die" list. That being said, I really liked this book - I found it equivalent to reading a gossip mag of the creators of fine art of the past two or three centuries. I also found the links between what was happening to the Author and his little tidbits rather amusing. I laughed out loud and I felt the gravitas of death, usually within the same page or two. I highly recommend this book. ( )