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briancrandall's review
4.0
The literature of the neighbourhood is still being written in the last neighbourhoods—the penthouses or the slums. But what will be the literature of the megalopolis? Already late modernism, so-called postmodernism, is perhaps pointing the way: the novel that is short on memorable characters or compelling narrative, long on pyrotechnical wordplay and a glut of information; the poem that is a string of disconnected ironies and pastiches of appropriated language. A literature with everyone and no one, a literature where—as is said of the slightly crazed—“there’s nobody home.” I suspect that those of us raised in the modern city, and raised in modernism, won’t understand it at all. [96–7]
uncleflannery's review against another edition
5.0
A few different times in my life I tried to read "The Golden Bough" straight through, I wish I'd known then about Eliot Weinberger. How can every sentence of an essay on STONES be better than the one before it? Like the blurb on the back says: "who is this guy and how does he know all this stuff??"
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