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“For decades, Gilbert Sorrentino has remained a unique figure in our literature. He reminds us that fiction lives because artists make it. . . . To the novel—everyone’s novel—Sorrentino brings honor, tradition and relentless passion.”—Don DeLillo
“Possessing both the grace of James Joyce and the snap and crackle of Tom Wolfe, [Sorrentino] is a must-read for those who fancy fiction served on wry.”—Booklist
“Far from being overly highbrow, Sorrentino manages to be thrillingly disorienting and, at the same time, quite accessible.”—BookSense.com
“Sorrentino has shown himself a perfect mimic of the information age, an era when all is revealed and no one can quite remember who appeared on the cover of last week’s People.”—The Washington Post
A boyhood friend of the late Hubert Selby, Jr., teacher of Jeffrey Eugenides and two-time PEN/Faulkner Award finalist, Gilbert Sorrentino is an elder statesman of American literature who continues to transgress artistic boundaries.
In Lunar Follies, a bitingly satiric, imaginative tour of gallery, museum and performance art exhibitions, Sorrentino skewers the pretensions of the contemporary art world and its flailing attempts at relevance in a society whose attentions have strayed to the immediacy of pop culture. With precise comedic timing and an eye toward lascivious detail, Sorrentino is the perfect guide through this deliciously absurd world.
Gilbert Sorrentino has published over 20 books of fiction and poetry, including the story collection, The Moon in Its Flight, and the recent novel, Little Casino, which was shortlisted for the 2003 PEN/Faulkner Award. After two decades on the faculty at Stanford University, he now lives in his native Brooklyn, New York.
patterns of death with lazy, terrible precision, the gooks, as they are called on this wall placard (hereon “Gooks”), can put a fucking round right up your ass if you’re unfortunate enough to bend over. It’s an inspiring collage, now you see him, now you see him as little chunks of seared flesh and splintered bone whizzing through the air. In full color. One magazine, ball ammunition, lock and load. And setting off the stirring photos of soldiers going about their everyday business is a
of “people’s art.” PURBACH New Departures, New Arrivals, Old Masters The quick wit and twisted imagery of Johnstone Sanderson’s “Nancy” poempix; the unexpurgated love letters, chock full of uninhibited and shimmery filth, of Sanderson William; William MacLise’s generous doses—several in number—of delirious “steel prose”; MacLise Brown’s August ice-cream gouaches, disgustingly compelling; fucking “discourse” and fucking “tropes” and the like, by Brown Forster; the Clitoris Commando Series by
Wings, Herbert Tareytons, Virginia Rounds, not to mention heartbreak loneliness and despair; lies and self-pity, questions and sobs and wails and regrets and death; flowers, recriminations; priests in black and gold and crepuscular churches, candles and incense and the gleaming monstrance, censers and Jesus Christ Almighty and Sister Veronica; sweet perfume and sweat, sweet odor of thighs and breasts, of young women in flat straw hats and spring coats, of virginity; the wind come up off the
and longer nights of droning argument and wayward discussion among the elderly sages, bumpkins, reprobates, drunks, and others who comprised “the Group,” as the castle’s devotees of unabashed sloth were thought of by the bemused if essentially moronic townspeople, Paul and Virginia often frequented one of the small shire’s penny arcades, the one, incidentally, that featured—proudly—three vaguely perverse portraits of Lauren Bacall in her salad days: one as a Medici princess, one as a Medici
celebrated fundraiser, artisan, marathon runner, and secret cocksucker to the stars, who was, to one and all in the demimonde, Mademoiselle Cassiopeia. Paul and Virginia almost always found themselves, toward dawn, in the corner of the penny arcade known as the Grand Owl Habitat, a curious name for what was, in essence, a shooting gallery that had been rescued from the ruins of the Hotel Eden, a rambling apartment hotel designed, for some reason, now lost to students of the faux baroque, to look