Stephen King sits at his desk tapping a Montblanc against a yellow legal pad. Tap, tap, tap, tap. Twilight Zone : Wild West, Twilight Zone : Wild West, he thinks. Someone, call it a deity, clicks on a light bulb above his head. In a whisk, King's hand snatches at a row of books above his battered...
Reed does not get the respect nor the addition to the canon he should have years ago. This is a marvelous book which makes Pynchon's CRYING OF LOT 49 look like a picture book for beginner readers. The dialect is masterful, the distortions adapt, and the message clear. Reed manages to weave a poet...