The Queue
To-day, I reread David Schickler's short story "The Smoker," one of the interlocking tales that comprises his "novel" Kissing in Manhattan. I've read it four or five times in total, having been introduced to Schickler's writing around the turn of the millennium by my erstwhile friend-cum-object of desire Mrs. Sacramento. I was in a mood for its tale of oddity & certainty, of persons who know their minds even if they operate outside the bounds of normal convention. It was nice to read a bit of fiction again, after so many months reading naught but non-fiction. I've enjoyed & am enjoying that non-fiction, but there is nothing else quite so satisfying as quality fiction. The decline in fiction troubles me greatly; dismiss these lines as a jeremiad if you must, but we should lose something precious, something essential even, if we lose, if we abandon prose fiction. I love moving pictures as much as the next fellow, but they cannot give us what books give us, & non-fiction books cannot give us what fiction books give us. It was nice to revisit Douglas Kerchek & Nicole Bonner & the weirdness of "The Smoker."