Gassposters Welcome

When will you fucks finally accept Gass as the savior of American fiction? When will you fucks finally realize that Gass's prose is on the level of Joyce, surpassing it in certain respects? When will you fucks learn to bow down to the greatest living American writer, perhaps the greatest living writer period? When will you fucks learn that The Tunnel is the greatest novel of at least the last 50 years?

>“Wild eyes were another sign. It is something I have seldom seen — the expression of an ecstatic state — though much is foolishly written of them, as if they grew like Jerusalem artichokes along the road. The eyes are black, right enough, whatever their normal color is; they are black because their perception is condensed to a coal, because the touch and taste and perfume of the lover, the outcry of a dirty word, a welcome river, have been reduced in the heat of passion to a black ash, and this unburnt residue of oxidation, this calyx, replaces the pupil so it no longer receives but sends, and every hair is on end, though perhaps only outspread on a pillow, and the nostrils are flared, mouth agape, cheeks sucked so the whole face seems as squeezed as a juiced fruit; I know, for once Lou went into that wildness while we were absorbing one another, trying to kiss, not merely forcefully, not the skull of our skeleton, but the skull and all the bones on which the essential self is hung, kiss so the shape of the soul is stirred too, that's what is called the ultimate French, the furtherest fuck, when a cock makes a concept cry out and climax; I know, for more than once, though not often, I shuddered into that other region, when a mouth drew me through its generosity into the realm of unravel, and every sensation lay extended as a lake, every tie was loosed, and the glue of things dissolved. I knew I wore the wild look then. The greatest gift you can give another human being is to let them warm you till, in passing beyond pleasure, your defenses fall, your ego surrenders, its structure melts, its towers topple, lies, fancies, vanities, blow away in no wind, and you return, not to the clay you came from — the unfired vessel — but to the original moment of inspiration, when you were the unabbreviated breath of God.”

Welcome to Gass land, my friends. Settle down, have a nice cup of perfect prose, and let's get to Gassin.

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I'm a huge Gass supporter but i'd have to say Pynchon at his height is better than Gass in his prime. I still rank Gass firmly above Delillo and Mccarthy.

the gass that comes out of my ass is more significant than the one in the OP

Are there multiple Gassposters now?

I think Gass has a relatively good following on Veeky Forums

I think it's just one guy unless he has successfully memed Gass

Another thread of this motherfucker.
Please report this post.

Jesus fucking christ picked the fuck up.
Gass should be read aloud right?

Gaddis > Gass

i see your fat old white american dude, and raise you another. i consider this aesthetic perfection

>Indeed, as any number of "definitions" of realism assert, and as the totemic ancestor of the novel, Don Quixote, emblematically demonstrates, that processing operation variously called narrative mimesis or realistic representation has as its historic function the systematic undermining and demystification, the secular "decoding," of those preexisting inherited traditional or sacred narrativ!! paradigms which are its initial givens. In this sense, the novel plays a significant role in what can be called a properly bourgeois cultural revolution—that immense process of transformation whereby populations whose life habits were formed by other, now archaic, modes of production are effectively reprogrammed for life and work in the new world of market capitalism. The "objective" function of the novel is thereby also implied: to its subjective and critical, analytic, corrosive mission must now be added the task of producing as though for the first time that very life world, that very "referent"—the newly quantifiable space of extension and market equivalence, the new rhythms of measurable time, the new secular and "disenchanted" object world of the commodity system, with its post-traditional daily life and its bewilderingly empirical, "meaningless," and contingent Umwelt—of which this new narrative discourse will then claim to be the "realistic" reflection.