Gary
Shipley's conception of reality is more like our actual present reality than
our literary culture's usual inbred narrative realism can afford; that is:
grotesque, cornered, starving, horrific, on the verge of being ripped to
shreds. Yet in the same breath, by way of his attentions: finally transcendent
of that same ongoing mundane, excised of playground made-for-TV horseshit,
thought-bendingly alive in a way most ways of storytelling couldn't begin to
wish to ape. Literature almost doesn't deserve this maniac, and thank hell he's
here.
– Blake Butler
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