Now here’s a friendly little book that is notorious for being unknown and overlooked. If you’ve read it, you’re likely the passenger of one of three channels: (1) You trust William T. Vollmann’s judgement*; (2) you heard that the novel has been lumped in with the names Gaddis and Pynchon; or (3) your tastes coincide with those of Steven Moore. My own arrival is the result of a confluence of these channels, catalyzed by the Goodreads recommendation engine. While its affinities with the likes of Gaddis, Pynchon, et al. are not as prominent as I expected, Evan Dara’s debut novel achieves that almost impossible echelon of sui generis for which I pine. That is, I’ve read The Recognitions and Gravity’s Rainbow, but I can still say that The Lost Scrapbook is a unique experience that stands on its own.
After twenty-four days of finally working my way through William H. Gass’s masterpiece, I can say that my nails feel as besmirched as Herr I’m-Not-German Kohler’s. Gass, in his highly entertaining notes to the editors of the book, states that “[t]he reader is to feel, as he or she doubtless will, as if they are crawling through an unpleasant and narrow darkness.” Quite right. And in his interview with Michael Silverblatt (whose blurb adorns the cover of my Dalkey Archive paperback), Gass makes no qualms about the aspirations and demands of his book. Silverblatt, an avid and insightful reader if there ever was one, even confesses to swaying–yet not faltering–under the heft of the first 90 pages. The Tunnel is deliberately large, complex, and difficult. How else shall we, as readers, grow?