David Markson, whose wry, elliptical novels probing the scattered mind of the artist and the unruly craft of making art were frequently called postmodern and experimental and almost always surprisingly engaging and underappreciated, died Friday in his Greenwich Village apartment. He was 82.
Markson hung out at the Lion's Head, a macho, now-defunct West Village bar frequented by Pete Hamill, Nick Tosches, Frank McCourt, poet joel oppenheimer, & writers from nearby Village Voice & other newspapers, & which had a great jukebox. His novel “Wittgenstein’s Mistress” (1988) is highly regarded, but I haven't read it. I've read & have in my small, select collection of beat era paperbacks Markson's 1961 private eye novel, "Epitaph for a Dead Beat." If I want "post-modern" I read my own blog.
Labels: culture, obituary
"If a nation expects to be ignorant and free, in a state of civilization, it expects what never was and never will be." Thomas Jefferson