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One Hundred Dollars
I've spent the last two hours in bed, finishing Foer's Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close. At some point I was high on post-modernism, Foer and Oscar (Schell, not Wilde, for a change); now I contemplate it and can't really make sense of it. And cannot help but think that I am not supposed to make sense of it, and be relieved that I will never have to analyse it.
The doors, or rather, the keyholes and doorknobs, embedded seemingly at random; the pictures of birds; pages 269-271, written in digits correpsonding to those on a cell-phone.
I dearly hope that no one ever brings it to the classroom, to have it picked apart by youngsters and non-readers. And I cannot, for the life of me, make sense of it.
Usually, I would run, arms flailing madly, in the opposite direction if someone tried to hand my anything resembling post-modernism. I think I still will, but Foer certaintly accomplished something.
The doors, or rather, the keyholes and doorknobs, embedded seemingly at random; the pictures of birds; pages 269-271, written in digits correpsonding to those on a cell-phone.
I dearly hope that no one ever brings it to the classroom, to have it picked apart by youngsters and non-readers. And I cannot, for the life of me, make sense of it.
Usually, I would run, arms flailing madly, in the opposite direction if someone tried to hand my anything resembling post-modernism. I think I still will, but Foer certaintly accomplished something.
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