With the artform of literature having come to a certain point, how to write? and indeed, how to read? What remains possible? And what possibilities are closed or exhausted? Especially when the literary impulse doesn’t falter, when there’s still an imperative to keep going: how?
That’s me, briefly making the case for Nicholas John Turner’s Hang Him When He Is Not There as a true descendant of the novels of Samuel Beckett, over on Twitter.