Dis: Or, the Shadow of the Dome of Pleasure

Fiction. M. Pascal to the contrary, this shit don't stink. This shit reeks of righteous rage, bloody wit, and the bitters of monkeys in front of typewriters. This is writing that doesn't write, can't right but through imagination, of which Schneiderman has buckets, not to mention rhythm: his snaking quantitative meter pulls us through the beer, alexandrines lighting the shit ablaze. At the end of which we arrive, finally, at the obvious: this book is nothing short of and nothing less than the real shit--Kass Fleisher.