![]() These books belong to what we might call “the fun avant-garde.” Like the works of Borges and Calvino, Anne Carson and César Aira, they imply a whole raft of theoretical verbiage on the slippage of signification, the inadequacy of representation, the fallacies of plot and character, and all the rest of it, but are nevertheless so pleasurable to read-often more pleasurable than conventional fictions-that the implied museum tags spelling out the works’ conceptual premises come to seem irrelevant. Wittgenstein’s Ladder.” Until then, I have read this, my second of Markson’s late quartet of assemblage-novels this is the third in the series, and I am so far reading them backwards. ![]() ![]() Well, someday I will get around to the author’s masterpiece, Wittgenstein’s Mistress-as well as to those other books that are listed with wry self-reference in this book: “ Wittgenstein’s Vienna. ![]()
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