This is ordinarily something I’d keep to my own private haunt, Departure Delayed, but today is too special a day for my understandably minuscule following there. The 90th birthday of a man, William H. Gass, whose writing I perhaps too slavishly adore, requires eyeballs, even if they are likely set to blink and quickly flit away.
I recorded a while ago this small section I still read, perhaps too often. It’s from Omensetter’s Luck, arguably Gass’ greatest novel, and is where Henry Pimber walks into the woods and names the trees, like the first goddamned, depressed Adam, bound for a hanging high, improbably high, in the trees.
And in that spirit, I re-post it here:
Should you feel so included, other Gass-related excerpts and adorations can be found elsewhere.
Oh, and yes . . . should you indulge in the vanity of Googling yourself, Mr. Gass, Happy Birthday.