David Markson’s The Last Novel is a 200-some page book consisting entirely of factoids about various artists of all kinds and their failures, periods of stagnation, tragedies, thwartings, impoverishments, loneliness, setbacks and deaths. At the back of all this is a protagonist, a novelist who’s about done with writing, but he is only seen in relief, framed by the endless parade of trivia. Amazingly, the book is a roaring good read despite its total lack of story or overt presence of character or conflict. Or perhaps I just loved it, because reading about the failures of great and miserable geniuses is one of my keenest pleasures. Apparently, this book is the last in a trilogy, but I don’t feel I lost anything by starting with this one.
I’ve Been Reading: The Last Novel
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