03 mars 2019
Books now exist as book-objects; they are written by writers, loved by “book lovers,” made into lists, declared important. As objects they can be staged, as purveyors of relatability they can be used. But there’s a pervasive sense that they aren’t really meant to be read, critically evaluated, hated, or loved. Opinions are formed about them in advance; “the conversation” around them progresses in expected lines. Just as Claire’s dress in Nothing but the Night could exist without a body, many books could probably exist as a meticulously produced hardcovers full of blank pages—not because they are bad, but because increasingly, they do not exist to be read in the first place.
Fra et essay om John Williams' nylig gjenutgitte debutroman Nothing but the Night av B. D. McClay i The Baffler.