While updating the resources for this site, I included an expanded entry for a series of posts from a pseudonymous blogger named Ba Jin. Back in the summer of 2015, he offered a memorable chronicle of his first reading of The Lost Scrapbook, which is laced with sharp insights and the inevitable questions that arise when trying to orient and re-orient yourself in a novel that is stingy when it comes to support. When paired with Steve Russillo’s Lost Scrapbook page, this can serve as an ad hoc reader’s guide for anyone preparing to take the leap.
In his closing entry, Jin offers up a pointed question that pokes at the root of Dara’s accomplishment:
But perhaps the biggest challenge arises from the question: “Who is the novel’s protagonist?” Even the wildest novels have an easily id’d main character: Joyce’s Leo Bloom, Pynchon’s Slothrop, Nabokov’s Hugh Person. Can we say that Evan Dara has really done it? That is, fashioned a novel in which the protagonist is a utopian collectivity of individuals across a vast space, moving towards a collective action of protest against an equally abstract antagonist of crony corporations and their destructive capitalist system?
This morning’s edition of the St. Louis Post-Dispatch carried a story which is all too familiar for fans of The Lost Scrapbook. Reporters unearthed documents showing that 13 million pounds of hazardous waste—”bead waste,” containing cadmium, chromium, lead and other heavy metals used in paint pigments—had been illegally stored in a weed-choked warehouse on a flood plain within eyeshot of the Missouri River.
This poisonous depot is located in Franklin County, in the small town of Berger, which sits adjacent to Crawford County, the home of Isaura and the Ozark Corporation in TLS. And as was the case with Mother Ozark, the provenance of these toxins is purposely difficult to trace. Nine million pounds of its insidious inventory was originally dumped in Mississippi, before it was dug up and shuttled to Missouri, in loads of roughly 300,000 pounds a day for 20 days back in 2013. It’s a massive feat of logistical coordination, but, of course, in 2017, nobody knows anything.
One could splice some of these quotes into Dara’s masterpiece without raising any suspicion that they weren’t original to the novel.
A lawyer for Penny Duncan, owner of Missouri Green Materials, said Duncan was unaware the material was hazardous. She was told by her husband, Daryl Duncan, that the material was recyclable and could be used as a concrete additive, attorney Paul D’Agrosa said.
U.S. Technology leased the blasting materials to clients and was supposed to dispose of the waste, the indictment says, adding that the waste is not “hazardous” if 75 percent of the blasting materials are recycled within one year.
The indictment claims that on 20 days in 2013, as much as 300,600 pounds of waste a day was shipped from Mississippi to the Missouri Green Materials warehouse in rural Franklin County, near the tiny town of Berger. The indictment says no permit was obtained to move the material to Missouri.
The potential health risk of the waste isn’t clear. An email message left with the Missouri Department of Natural Resources on Tuesday was not immediately returned.
A September 2016 consent agreement with the U.S. Environmental Protection Agency calls for U.S. Technology and Williams to come up with a plan to properly remove the waste from the Missouri facility and test for any soil contamination.
But federal prosecutors said in the April indictment that the waste was still there. D’Agrosa said he had not been informed of any leaks or contamination.
The lack of a period at the end of the novel just reminds us that this story doesn’t end. It just goes on and on and on…
This week, I’ve been consumed by the works of a pair of powerful storytellers, whose devotion to detail in chronicling their respective historical sagas is inspiring and daunting. The first is Lacy M. Johnson’s The Fallout, which covers the cover-up of the radioactive legacy of the Manhattan Project, much of which is sitting in the bottom of a poorly-controlled landfill near Earth City, Missouri, a corporate suburb on the shoulder of the Missouri River, along the western edge of St. Louis. What’s unique about this motley trove of nuclear waste is that it sits about a football field away from a separate landfill that is dealing with a subsurface smoldering event which continues to creep toward the radioactive refuse. The unanswerable question is what will happen when they collide.
However, Johnson doesn’t dwell on these hypotheticals, since the waste—a byproduct of the refinement process used by Mallinckodt back in the 1940s, when, at one point, it was churning out a ton (a literal ton) of uranium oxide every day—has gone on to poison communities wherever it has been stored. Starting with Lambert Airport in the 1940s and 50s, to a storage facility in North St. Louis County in the mid 60s, to the secretive transfer to this landfill in the early 70s, the slipshod way in which this material was stored, transferred, and buried is damnable. And at each stop, it has leaked out of barrel drums and leached its way into creeks and streams, blown onto ballfields, and mutated the chromosomes of the unfortunate and oblivious souls in its path.
The article patiently zooms in and out, so that you can meet some of the affected, some of whom are dealing with exceedingly rare diseases, while also trying to wrap your mind around the length of term surrounding our radioactive baggage:
Thorium and uranium in particular are among the radioactive primordial nuclides, radioactive elements that have existed in their current form since before Earth was formed, since before the formation of the solar system even, and will remain radioactive and toxic to life long after humans are gone. We’re sitting back in Kay’s dining room when she pulls out a tiny booklet labeled “Nuclear Wallet Cards.” What its intended purpose is, I don’t know, but Kay flips to the back to show me the half-life of Thorium 232: fourteen billion years, a half-life so long that by the time this element is safe for human exposure, the Appalachian Mountains will have eroded away, every ocean on Earth’s surface will have evaporated, Antarctica will be free of ice, and all the rings of Saturn will have decayed. Earth’s rotation will have slowed so much that days will have become twenty-five hours long, photosynthesis will have ceased, and multicellular life will have become a physical impossibility.
Reading this and seeing the cancer cluster it’s caused, my mind kept retreating back to The Lost Scrapbook, and the scenes in Isaura as the evidence mounts that its beloved hometown corporation, Ozark, has poisoned the groundwater with C56, which was one of the demonic toxins manufactured by Hooker Chemical for over twenty years. Readers of Evan Dara’s work tend to pull up the parallels to Love Canal, which was Hooker’s most notorious nightmare, but the C56 story played out in Montague, Michigan:
Warren Dobson, who had worked in the C56 operation, said Hooker employees had routinely dumped 55 gallon drums of C56 wastes on the ground, that some wastes had been poured from the drums directly onto the soil and killed the trees in an area called “Dead Lake,” that C56 vapors and liquids were routinely allowed to escape from the plant and employees were instructed to say it was “steam,” and that a supervisor once told him: “This isn’t a chocolate factory. We’ve got to make money.” Dobson said he had to tell the story because it was his “duty” as a Christian.
Incredibly, the state did not bother to check the barrels until six months later. When Department of Natural Resources agents found them in March, 1978, the company, according to one state official, “shrugged its shoulders. They said you people knew about this. It’s been here since the 1950s.”
It took several months for the full weight of the contamination to become clear. There was a 15 to 20 acre dumpsite filled with 15 years worth of drummed C56 waste. There was another 15-acre sludge lagoon where three million gallons of contaminated sediment had been dumped. More than 102 chemical compounds were eventually isolated in the waste-“a complete spectrum,” said the DNR’s Jim Truchan, “of all the worst chemicals we’ve got to deal with from the standpoint of environmental contamination.” The state tests showed that the entire plume of groundwater underneath the plant was severely contaminated and moving south, through the backyards of Blueberry Ridge, to White Lake.
Dara drew from dozens of similar examples, and knits Montague into the patchwork of afflicted communities listed on pages 474-475. The commonalities between these stories and the tale that Johnson tells are clear and frustratingly repetitive. The forces that spur cities and towns to court companies using tax breaks and regulatory relief are rooted in the now, yet they are sometimes left with problems that become too large to solve. In the case of St. Louis, the race for the atomic bomb during World War II placed blinders on the decision-makers, all of whom are now gone, immune from prosecution except by history for the disastrous decisions that will have to monitored and managed until the end of time.
Which brings me to Dan Carlin’s Hardcore History podcast, which found its way into my phone over the July 4th holiday. The current episode (he only releases a handful each year), entitled The Destroyer of Worlds, is a six-hour tour de force, offering a sweeping survey beginning with the early days of the atomic bomb and its use by “the haberdasher from Independence, Missouri,” up through the Cuban Missile Crisis and the standoff between Kennedy and Khrushchev. It serves as a baleful counterpoint to the long-term perspective of Johnson’s story, since you’re listening to men (almost entirely men) make decisions and operate under the condition that tomorrow may never come. Who cares if Thorium’s deadly half-life is 14 billion years if armageddon ends the human experiment next Thursday?
It is a heart-racing account which dwells on the stress that each president has had to deal with, laced with questions about whether we’re evolutionarily capable of adequately pondering the imponderable and consistently choosing to avoid annihilation. How can one make a decision about the fate of the world in 6 minutes?
As the brilliant songwriter Scott Miller once sang, “Decisions made too fast/Seem to be the ones that last.” While Carlin shows us how close we’ve come to not being here, Johnson lays out the price that people are paying for our collective refusal to come to terms with what’s been left behind in the process.
…I had Matthew tell the internist in his own words about the headaches he was having, how they seemed to float around the top of his head and also behind his forehead, and how they would get so bad that they made him nauseous, and about how his eyes sometimes felt like they were burning…and then, as Matthew was dressing, the Doctor asked me to come into his office; and there he told me that he couldn’t find any evident source for the disorders, so he was referring us to a specialist, a neurologist; and immediately, you know, immediately I said Well, you hear what they’re saying; I mean do you think this could have anything to do with the water?; and the Doctor, sitting in his own office, the Doctor said that he didn’t really know; so I said Well, don’t you have any opinion, any idea?; and the Doctor, sitting there in his own office, I mean a medical doctor in his own place, he said that he wasn’t terribly inclined to take risks with lawsuits, so he wouldn’t say so even if he knew—
The Lost Scrapbook, p. 423
Last month, I sketched out the case that Manuel Puig may have had more to do with the look and sound of Evan Dara’s novels than William Gaddis. But, while setting it up, I wrote that he had broken his silence on only one occasion, in swatting away Tom LeClair’s query about the influence of Gaddis, shortly after the publication of The Easy Chain. In fact, he responded to Steven Moore about this same topic in 2014, which Moore included in his expanded edition of William Gaddis. Here is the relevant excerpt from page 213:
“…Tom LeClair was right to bring up The Recognitions in his review of Evan Dara’s first novel, The Lost Scrapbook (1996), which, like his subsequent novels, has sheets of Gaddisian dialogue, though this is only coincidental.*
* “Asked about Gaddis’s possible influence, Dara told me that while working on The Lost Scrapbook he head that J R was a novel in dialogue and checked it out from The American Library in Paris: ‘Took the novel home, plunked it open, tapped it shut — didn’t want the influence’ (email January 19, 2014).”
Until Dara publishes his own Temple of Texts, we’re left to continue listening hard to trace the origins and chart the echoes of his voices, without the author’s hand on our shoulder.
After reading the accounts of the attendees of this year’s 4th annual David Foster Wallace Conference, held once again at Illinois State University, it’s clear that the state of the union of DFW studies is strong. The papers, presentations, and podcasts sowed more seeds for Wallace scholars to nurture, while the collision of conversations sparked and soldered bonds which provide sustenance for those lonely days and nights in the carrels.
The field of Evan Dara studies, on the other hand, doesn’t exactly qualify as a cottage industry yet. It has been twelve years since Jeremy Green published Late Postmodernism: American Fiction at the Millennium, which, up until now, has been the only text to offer an extensive analysis of The Lost Scrapbook. It’s a slim, decidedly non-encyclopedic volume, but it’s noteworthy that neither Wallace nor Pynchon appear, except in passing. Instead, Green offers readings of Philip Roth, John Barth, Franzen’s The Corrections, Carole Maso, Richard Powers (specifically Galatea 2.2), David Markson, Kathryn Davis’s Walking Tour, and Don DeLillo.
In the introduction, Green suggests a way of arranging the writers under consideration along a continuum of accessibility, breaking them into two camps of postmodernism:
Postmodern art, architecture, and literature can by analogy be described as “citra” and “ultra”: the citra-postmodern would be that artistic practice that returns from the radicalism of the high modernist moment to offer “the ornamental and more readily available”; the ultra-postmodern, on the other hand, would be a variety of practice that radicalizes modernism, often to the point of refusing “immediate intelligibility or sensuous gratification”….Late Postmodernism traces an arc from the citra-, particularly the fiction of Roth and Franzen, to the ultra-postmodern, best represented by Evan Dara’s challenging novel….It is a telling irony that Roth and Franzen, among the most pessimistic of the authors I address, have achieved recognition beyond the usual print-based venues of the literary public sphere….In contrast, Dara’s novel was published by a small press, and has received little recognition in any media, yet it remains an optimistic, even utopian work, because of its thoroughgoing commitment to critique and innovation.
Green picks up on numerous nuances of The Lost Scrapbook, which he covers in his final chapter, “Late Postmodernism and the Utopian Imagination.” He offers quite a bit to chew on, so I plan to revisit it here in the coming weeks. However, following its publication, few critics picked up the baton and carried it forward.
This is why it’s exciting to report that 2017—which has turned into a calamitous waking fever dream for those who are cursed by a thirst for news—brings us not one, but two significant titles that shine new light on Dara’s work. One is Emmett Stinson’s Satirizing Modernism: Aesthetic Autonomy, Romanticism, and the Avant-Garde (briefly previewed last month), which, for the first time, places The Easy Chain under the microscope.
The second is American Literature in Transition, 1990–2000, which is part of an ambitious series being rolled out in November by Cambridge University Press. They sagely tapped Stephen Burn to serve as editor for this pivotal decade:
Written in the shadow of the approaching millennium, American Literature in the 1990s was beset by bleak announcements of the end of books, the end of postmodernism, and even the end of literature. Yet as conservative critics marked the century’s twilight hours by launching elegies for the conventional canon, American writers proved the continuing vitality of their literature by reinvigorating inherited forms, by adopting and adapting emerging technologies to narrative ends, and by finding new voices that had remained outside that canon for too long. By reading nineties literature in a sequence of shifting contexts—from independent presses to the AIDs crisis; from angelology to virtual reality—American Literature in Transition, 1990-2000 provides the fullest map yet of the changing shape of a rich and diverse decade’s literary production. It offers new perspectives on the period’s well-known landmarks, Toni Morrison, Thomas Pynchon, David Foster Wallace, but also overdue recognition to writers such as Ana Castillo, Evan Dara, Steve Erickson, Carole Maso.
More details will be shared as they become available, but, according to Burn, he contributed a substantial piece on Dara.
While there are no Dara conferences on the horizon, I’m eager to see the ripple effect that these books have on current and future students, and the new readers they bring into the fold.
In the 22 years since Evan Dara published his first novel, he has granted no interviews nor provided any substantive insight regarding his background or his working methods. Except once (or twice). Following the release of The Easy Chain in 2008, the dean of postmodern literary critics, Tom LeClair, emailed him and asked about the influence of William Gaddis on his writing, specifically The Recognitions and JR. While LeClair wasn’t able to serve up a direct quote, he reports that Dara denied having read either book.
Without survey data to support this supposition, I don’t think current authors are as threatened by this question as Harold Bloom once theorized. When Lucas Thompson appeared on The Great Concavity, he derided the notion of the “anxiety of influence” as an outdated metaphor, a relic of a hyper-masculine framework which equated the acknowledgement of influence with a form of weakness. To admit that you were shaped by a contemporary was a sign that you were lacking in genius, which might invite the most dreaded of damning adjectives: derivative.
In his book Global Wallace, Thompson channeled his voluminous research on David Foster Wallace within the Harry Ransom Center into a compelling argument regarding the breadth of influences upon his writing, along with the notion that Wallace was both generous and candid when it came to crediting those who wormed their way into his consciousness.
Having spent weeks scouring the materials within the center’s inventory, Thompson was a natural person to ask whether there’s anything about Dara in the archive. However, he told me that he didn’t run across any mentions of Dara. “I could well have missed something, though, so it’s still a possibility, but I’m fairly sure there’s nothing (sadly) in the archive to corroborate the anecdotal evidence.”
But as he traced the evolution of Wallace’s style and his use of typographical tools such as dashes and ellipses—including the Q’s in Brief Interviews with Hideous Men and earlier incarnations in Infinite Jest and Girl with Curious Hair—he saw that Wallace had adopted some of these methods well before he encountered the work of Gaddis. He references the work of Wallace (and Dara) scholar Stephen Burn, who says the evidence suggests that “Wallace came to Gaddis’s fiction at a relatively late stage in his career, circa 1993.”
For those who believe that Gaddis has always exerted a strong gravitational pull since winning the National Book Award with JR, it’s worth noting that his rise to renewed relevance came in the summer of 1993, with Penguin’s reissue of The Recognitions (which features perhaps the most memorable of William Gass’s bar-setting introductions) and JR. Just looking at the tick-tock, we know that Wallace was already working on Infinite Jest, while Dara was surely hip deep into The Lost Scrapbook. It would have been difficult for either writer to ignore Gaddis’s presence after this point, especially following the release of A Frolic of His Own in 1994. But it’s quite plausible that he wasn’t even on their radar prior to this recrudescence.
So, if you were to rule out Gaddis as the most likely suspect in planting these dashes and ellipses in the heads of Dara and Wallace, who might we assign partial credit? In the case of Wallace, both Burn and Thompson point to the Argentine novelist, Manuel Puig, with Thompson concluding that he appropriated the stylistic device of including ellipses to indicate non-verbal reactions due to Puig, rather than Gaddis:
“Wallace used this particular form of punctuation to great effect in his first novel, The Broom of the System, though in later texts ellipses constitute one of his stylistic trademarks, appearing in almost all works from Infinite Jest through to The Pale King. And though the representation of such pauses resonates on some level with the way that Wittgenstein used ellipses—indeed, an early reviewer once scolded Wallace for relying on such ‘pseudo-Wittgensteinian’ techniques—it was clearly a homage to the Argentine author, with Wallace himself admitting in 1987 that ‘if the technique is a rip-off of anyone it’s of Manuel Puig.'”
Reading through Thompson’s work tracing the connections between Puig and Wallace, one could easily substitute Dara’s name. For example, Puig was a proponent of the dash to indicate speech or, in some cases, silence. Here’s a passage Thompson pulled from Puig’s Betrayed by Rita Hayworth, which was published in 1968:
Compare this with the section from The Lost Scrapbook where the tobacco industry spokesperson fields questions from a press gaggle, after reading a statement in response to a pair of significant courtroom wins in the summer of 1987:
Of course, Wallace pushed this device hardest in Brief Interviews with Hideous Men, where the questions of the therapist are represented simply by a Q. Dara has used this sparingly, and tends to allow the respondent within a conversation to vocalize their agreement or acknowledge the speaker. What’s interesting is that he and Puig use a similar tool to accomplish this, the “mmm.”
Here is a passage from Kiss of the Spider Woman:
Puig deploys mmm or mmm-hmm 36 times in the novel. Dara, on the other hand, clips one of the m’s in The Lost Scrapbook, inserting it 38 times. Here is a swatch from p. 303:
Wallace’s appreciation of Puig ran deep, and touched on attributes which are among Dara’s strengths (bolded for emphasis):
“But there were parts of it that were a rip-off of an Argentine writer named Manuel Puig, who is best known for the book that Kiss of the Spider Woman is based on. And most of his stuff is entirely in dialogue. One of my professors was also a playwright, and so that was a time when I was real excited by dialogue. I mean it’s straight dialogue without attribution, so the reader has to tell who is talking by difference cadences. That was fun.”
Following a recent episode of The Great Concavity, I was going to meditate upon some of the research that Lucas Thompson has offered in Global Wallace, which looks at the non-obvious influences upon David Foster Wallace, since there are clear connections with Evan Dara. But, to expand upon a particular point regarding Dara’s stylistic choices, I returned to page 1 (or p. 5) in The Lost Scrapbook, which contains the epigraphs. Here, in the first notes sounded in his debut, he includes a quote from Kierkegaard (“To honor every man, absolutely every man, is the truth.”) and a potentially misleading section of Marcus Andronicus’s speech near the end of Shakespeare’s pulp bloodbath, Titus Andronicus:
“O let me teach you how to knit again
This scattered corn into one mutual sheaf,
These broken limbs again into one body;”
Let’s start with Kierkegaard. On the surface, it is fairly anodyne, immune to controversy and resistant to meaningful reflection. You can almost hear the college sophomore slowly exhaling this after an inferior lobe tickling bong hit: “Yep, honoring every man, absolutely every man, mm-hmm, that is the truth.” It’s something suitable for stitching on an oversized pillow or engraving on a wall in a wayward boys academy, an oblique inspiration.
However, two things stand out here. The first is that the quote is but a fragment, from his autobiography The Point of View of My Work as an Author:
“To honor every man, absolutely every man, is the truth, and this is what it is to fear God and love one’s neighbor.”
We hear the echo of the Book of Matthew echoing the Book of Leviticus, and we’re left to wonder why Dara chopped it where he did, or if he considered using the book’s first ellipsis to surgically remove the religious signifier, which, even as I type it, is ridiculous to even suggest. But the idea of honoring every man being the way you love one’s neighbor is bubbling under the surface of the book, like the Hexa permeating Isaura’s water supply. There is a growing weight to this challenge, with populations bulging and communities falling asunder and/or fleeing.
Compounding the external conditions is the idea that the individual is falling inward, and slowly losing the skills to work within the framework of a community. To quote the old Ralph Chaplin union hymn, “Oh what force on earth could be weaker than the feeble strength of one.” For Kierkegaard, this is a fundamental tension, since part of achieving communion with God was through agonizing solitude.
For readers of The Lost Scrapbook, the undertones are probably obvious. But I’m not doctorally prepared to step much further into this philosophical minefield.
A second point about this quote is that it comes from a book that serves as an extended defense of Kierkegaard’s use of pseudonyms, which included Victor Eremita, Johannes Climacus, and Johannes de Silentio (recall that the final word in TLS is “Silence”). Here is part of his explanation:
“I will allow someone else to speak, my poet, who, when he comes, will usher me to the place among those who have suffered for an idea and say: ‘The martyrdom this author suffered can be described quite briefly in this way: He suffered being a genius in a market town….Yet also here in the world he found what he sought: ‘that single individual’; if no one else was that, he himself was and became that more and more.'”
Throughout his career, Kierkegaard drew names to carry particular points of view, especially those that were on opposite sides of various rhetorical divides, ranging from the Christian to the Hegelian. Perhaps Dara’s decision to operate under a pseudonym was inspired by this idea, assembling and cross-cutting all of these voices, letters, and inner monologues under an all-encompassing nom de plume (you could write a whole book on defining Dara). A natural hypothesis, lacking hard data.
In a play besotted with blood and buried in bodies, Dara rescues a hopeful phrase from a shellshocked oration, offered by Marcus Andronicus, one of two characters who somehow cross the finish line with life and limbs. For context, here are Marcus’s words, uttered moments after the murders of Titus and Saturninus, marking what looks to be a temporary ceasefire:
You sad-faced men, people and sons of Rome,
By uproar sever’d, like a flight of fowl
Scatter’d by winds and high tempestuous gusts,
O, let me teach you how to knit again
This scatter’d corn into one mutual sheaf,
These broken limbs again into one body;
Lest Rome herself be bane unto herself,
And she whom mighty kingdoms court’sy to,
Like a forlorn and desperate castaway,
Do shameful execution on herself.
The surrounding stanza casts the epigraph in an altered light, though it doesn’t pull the rug out from under it either. What’s interesting is that these words flow from a speaker who has neither the credibility nor the experience to convince anyone of his ability to foster renewal. Of course, coming at the end of this rollercoaster of necrophilia and violence, which might pair well with Pasolini’s Salo for a double feature of human desolation, this lovely metaphor in the service of propaganda might not even register with the punchdrunk audience.
In Croteau and Jean-Cooke’s Apocalyptic Shakespeare: essays on visions of chaos and revelation in recent film adaptations, the authors argue that:
“There is little in the play to suggest that Marcus, or anyone else, could do either the requisite knitting or teaching. For example, it is not clear at the end that Marcus has learned the play’s lessons: his images…presume that in the beginning was a primary unity that has been somehow ruptured. But Shakespeare takes great pains to suggest that such an originary unity was never really there and does nothing to suggest that Marcus possesses a vision of difference sufficiently comprehensive upon which to ground his instruction….Marcus’s offer of instruction seems more like a question: how can the numerous differences in the world of the play be resolved or reconciled? How can so many disparate things be unified, knit together in one “mutual sheaf”? Titus’s tragedy, and that of Rome, is that these questions were not responsibly dealt with from the outset.”
The adrenaline wave which carries the reader through the last hundred pages of The Lost Scrapbook deposits them on the shores of a multitude of toxic beaches (I was going to say Times Beach, which is an hour’s drive up I-44 from Crawford County (where Isaura is located), but that’s another story), where these same questions haunt us. The country’s originary unity is an illusion, and none of its questions have been responsibly dealt with.
Of course, this suggests another narrow view, the reading of a progressive who mainlined Chomsky in his day, seeking to align the idea of history’s arc bending toward justice within an equation where the timescale seems considerably wider:
“Where you will die I will die and Where are the new crusaders? but by then the signals were faint, the sounds and the signals were flickering and faint, yes, the signals were flickering out, flickering into the amassing regathering, into the conclusive regathering where physics becomes math become psychology becomes biology, yes flickering and lost to the definitive regathering, the comforting regathering into continuity, into continuousness, into abundance, into that abundance that is silently and invisibly working on every variation, into full and enfolding abundance, into the extreme abundance of silence, yes into its opulent abundance, its sweet unity and abundance…” (p.476)
Those epigraphs are neither ornamental nor simplistic. And they aren’t accidental. They could use further scrutiny. Many of the rewards of The Lost Scrapbook are found in the second, third, and fifteenth readings, sandwiched between Shakespeare and silence. It is certainly an opulent abundance.