Why begin at “A”—indeed, why begin at “all,” the anonymous author seems to reply with characteristic brio. “AAAAA Auto service” provides our only introduction to this compendious tome, but it is a Whitmanesque, barabaric yawp that also evokes Rilke, the Rilke of the Duino Elegies, at his most plaintive. The clipped, syllabic lines, each immediately deconstructed by the author into a numeric “code,” are to be our only guide through this vast, mysterious fen of identity-upon-identity, armies of characters who parade by, redolent of life’s absurd, beautiful parade. What are we to make, for example, of the army of “Chans,” the hordes of “Smiths,” the enigmatic, “Elk, Dick” on page 532, or the lonely “Zyld, Gladys M.” with which the saga closes? I cannot say, but the tale, which literally landed on my doorstep only yesterday, has engaged my interest. Here is a poet to watch!
Frank
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-- Frank
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