Anything I run across can light up the circuitry of my brain, and set me on an adventure. To research strains of yeast; hiccup fetishists; the proper use of inverse, obverse, converse and reverse; the ratio of main narrative to tangent, of forward action to aside. What else do we do but quest, pursue meaning in the information wash? Where does that storm sewer opening from the river into the citys underneath go to, anyhow? I grab a headlamp and head in. Its long and low and dark and stinks and extends for miles. Underneath the city is another city. The one above begins to disappear. Thats what were after, isnt it? To disappear? To venture into darkness, to let what we know or think we know recede for an hour, a day, a novels length, and see what meaning can be made of what remains?
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About Ander Monson
Ander Monson was American writer. Ander Monson is an American novelist, poet, and nonfiction writer. Read more on Wikipedia →