Group Read foreplay.

[Joseph Tracy]

Ive only read his most recent: Orfeo. Absolutely wonderful writer. Clearly knows science. Love that phrase” unhinged and macaronic fiction”. Damn I wish I’d have said that. 
> On Jan 30, 2016, at 5:18 PM, Mark Kohut <mark.kohut at gmail.com> wrote:
> 
> Richard Powers' appreciation of GR
> http://www.bookforum.com/archive/sum_05/pynchon.html
> "Information. What's wrong with dope and women? Is it any wonder the world's gone insane, with information come to be the only real medium of exchange?"
> "I thought it was cigarettes."
> "You dream." (Gravity's Rainbow)
> I remember the thing homing in, soundless, of course, on its parabolic arc, that purified shape latent in the sky. No clue, no advance warning until it hit. I thought I knew how fiction worked, what fiction did, the proper object of its only subject. Then those sentences, screaming across the page, each one skywriting: You dream.
> For three decades, I've retraced that arc once a year, that shape of no surprise, no second chances, no return. And every time, I'm thrown back on mute, wild surmise. The war is everywhere and real, our terrors threatening to perfect us, the technologies of our desire extending into networks too complex for anything but unhinged and macaronic fiction even to hint at.
> For thirty years, early each winter, as the newspapers roll out their end-of-year obituaries and take to listing the year's proudest, most achieved disasters, I've read out loud, to myself or to anyone who will listen, a passage from that book that ruined me for science and made me think of writing as a life. Nine pages: that battery-ringed evensong service, set somewhere in Kent—the closest thing I have to a private religious ritual. I do it to remind myself of the size of the made world, of what story might still be when it remembers itself, of the look of our maximum reach outward, of the devastating charge of words. I do it to remind myself of our only real medium of exchange.
> Richard Powers is the author of eight novels.

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