Å·±¦ÓéÀÖ

The screed of a dying man against the culture that spurned him. Successful as a concise piece of fiction, I feel that for it to have gone on much longer than it did would have tired the trope; but here, in compact form, Gaddis's anger, resentment and ultimate helplessness comes through in waves.

I'm sure that among this up-turned-nose clique in the larger digital armpit of Å·±¦ÓéÀÖ, we're all basically in alignment with Gaddis's thesis in this novella. That we're right about our assessments that the art that is popular is dogshit, and the product of art cannot be mechanized, and if art becomes mechanized it's no longer actually art. I try to instill in my budding teenaged nephew one mantra: Just because something's popular doesn't mean it's good. He'll get it, I hope. But am I resigning him to a life of anger like the narrator in AgapÄ“ Agape?

Gaddis is such a master of disguise—having read his first two and this one, each is so unique, but so deeply biting and tough skinned. There's plenty of humor throughout it all, but underneath lurks a stinging bitterness that syncs up with my cynical core.