It's the mid-1960s and the fireworks of Late Modernism are bursting like mortar shells all around you. On one side are the jewel-encrusted works of Alain Robbe-Grillet, turning the novel into a gridlike Mondrian painting as characters swish through gilded, mirror-paneled rooms and catacombs of erotic torture. Over there, Marguerite Duras is transforming memories of an Indochinese girlhood into memento mori--elegant origami of ardor and loss. A few paces away, Jean-Luc Godard is colliding brassiere ads, gas-station billboards, and dime novels into handmade supernovas. And anywhere, everywhere you turn there is Samuel Beckett, spinning yarns of souls buried alive, Beckett striding the earth like a Shakespeare, a... More >>>
By Donna Jackson
Jonathan Coe: "So what if he wasn't likable? I liked him anyway."