If I find something I like a lot about an author, I try to devour their entire ouvre, to understand exactly what I like about their style. I’ve been captivated by Kazuo Ishiguro’s Remains of The Day, finding it clear and expressive.
It’s not quite like Philip Roth, but it’s a book I enjoy the ‘texture’ of. This may sound somewhat autistic, but I can sense a book’s texture. Roth is like a coarse fabric, broken in from your sweat. Vonnegut is abrasive, like sandpaper to the touch, almost jarring. Foster Wallace is smooth, uncomfortably so, metallic and chrome. Shimmering but unreachable. Hemingway draws you in, silky, luring. Joyce is god-awful, offensive to the senses, disgusting. Like dried up puke all over linens.
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