David Markson is dead.
The news came to me here in Montecatini, near Lucca in Italy. A nice place to be aware that I am alive and he is dead.
A mean and nasty man.
I had been one of those who read the manuscript of Wittgenstein's Mistress and urged Jack O'Brien to publish it.
Markson objected to an essay I wrote about knowing him as a writer which was published in the Review of Contemporary Fiction. He threatened to beat me up... I am not kidding and he was not kidding as he was a barroom brawler or at least aspired to that role...a boozed up blowhard that gave the unlamented Lion's Head in a New York City some sort of reputation where midst Joe Flaherty and Pete Hamill he never tired of exploiting the accident of his friendship with the drunk Malcolm Lowry, a far better writer.
6 comments:
very tacky, whoever you are. great men do, small men whine.
A minor writer is a minor writer
You spelled Malcolm Lowry's name wrong.
Spelling corrected...
Bold...I'd tried reading Going Down and what a bad smell that was of DHL and co. Sorry but Lowry belongs in that pile too. Over-rated - by no less than Foucault and no more than Gass
If you're interested check out http://readingmarksonreading.tumblr.com for some Markson marginalia...
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