That tired old canon. I wish it would come back already. Put Durrell on it. Write on him like...well, Borges. Let's be clear. Imitative and honest, admitting nothing to theorists. They'll eventually pull a few things out to correct, solve.
A literary event, a doctor visit, poof--a new reading to put on the table, let the audience gawk. The book is reborn, in your hands! It's what you get out of it, yes.
... Ver más
Clea smacks Darley across the face, causing the blood to surround his teeth, as if to mortify his grin--but we are told he's upset, livid. His response to being smacked for suggesting he'll write a book of criticism is not a grin!
Darley, that lecher "with chalk on his sleeve," bespectacled--needed wakening from someone who has lost herself and can only revive by alerting another of his slumber. And sincerely, thanks goes to Clea. The literary world ought to hear about this, the panel has got to be notified.
(They want smacking--more than the artist who here in Durrell's text was filling the silence with a dull remark about the future. The truth is he writes three of these books for us: we only know what we know because he interfered with the past, rendered it artistically. Yet he ever doubts that he is a writer. He is not an artist, he tells us. The moment he realizes it is finally poignant in the fourth book: until then, it was a slowly dawning matter of fact.)
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