When he was a creative-writing undergrad at the University of Victoria, D.W. Wilson came up with some fairly strict rules about how to write a sentence.
It pains me to say so, but the ninth novel from Maine’s Nicholson Baker is exactly the kind of hollow fuck-fest his other sex books were once decried as back in the ’90s.
All of Wallace's hallmarks are here: asides that run on for pages, soliloquies rife with jargon, and a determination to treat his characters with as much empathy as possible.