The first time I’d read it, at 11, it was about a boy, because I was young. The second, at 19, it was about love, because I was in love. This time around, it was about death. And because it was about death, it was about everything else, too, juxtaposed with death.
Not reading Roussel is similar to never having eaten a pomegranate: never having pulled apart the brittle skin, peeled back the bitter membrane, bit into each seed for a tiny squirt of juice, ending up with a red-stained shirt.
Writers known for a certain tone and style often struggle to pull off anything outside their box, the literary equivalent of typecast actors.
For Maxwell, the past is a single fixed point, discontinuous from the present, and the center around which his imagination revolves, like a talisman or a totem.
That’s the thing about Florida: in the best scenario, it wouldn’t have people in it. The Florida I loved as a child, the one that I still love as an adult, exists uneasily alongside human beings.