suapretensa solidez. Tem seu que de excessivo e digressivo, trechos inteiros quepoderiam ser cortados sem prejuizo para o todo (meia pagina falando mal datransformacao/consagracao de Joyce de escritor realista em puzzlemaker,pontuada por um singelo fuck him); pela recepcao critica que teve, parece queseu livro mais recente, Subtle Bodies, mais curtinho, sofre justamente porcerto desajuste de velocidade: demora demais para construir seu mundo sem ter oespaco e demora necessarios para o acumulo e o efeito de resolucao. Lerei.Norman Rush para mim esta na categoria de grandeza que ate os fracassosinteressam.J.G.Ballard diz na introducao de seus contos reunidos que lamenta a queda de statusque a short story sofreu durante seu tempo de vida: no inicio de carreira eramvarias as revistas literarias (de ficcao cientifica ou nao) que buscavam novostalentos e conseguiam vendagem para se manter, enquanto hoje parece que o campovirou quase todo para os romancistas. Ele fala que acha isso curioso, poisconhece varios contos perfeitos e nenhum romance perfeito. Ja eu acho que esta justamenteai um dos segredos dessa predominancia: essa imperfeicao e como um efeito derealidade, em que nem tudo cabe a uma maquina central de sentido, encaixado comexatidao: ha sobras, excessos, espacos em branco que nao sao meticulosamenteesculpidos por um texto-moldura. Certo aspecto intangivel de inacabado, dolivro que de certa maneira poderia continuar e nao continua, o livro quepoderia calar e se alonga. Claro, muito dificil de definir qual a medida dissoem que realmente entra no espaco do erro e da impericia, mas essa dificuldadede definicao e tambem indicio de que algo que e real foi capturado.--- Trechinho,traduzido por este que vos posta:It never changed for him, seeingher again after a days separation, or even less. He felt a flowing, objectlessgratitude so strong it weakened him. He wanted her touch. It was permanent withhim. She put her hands on him and slipped one hand through the unbuttoned topof his shirt. She was wearing a plain white sundress and she was barefoot. Theshape of her heavy hair against the light and the scent of it as he put hisface into her hair were perfections, were absolute things. He was forty-eight.She was thirty-eight. A pleasure he had was catching flashes of surprise inpeoples expressions when she told her age, which she was always truthfulabout. He often had the satisfaction of seeing people look at him, obviouslywondering what it was about him that they werent seeing that made itreasonable for a woman of this quality to be with him, be his. He had alwayslooked his exact age. And he also liked seeing them being given pause bysomeone at her level of physical beauty dealing with people so much morenicely than she should be, on their past experience of great beauties, whichshe was, which she was. These were instantaneous moments, but real. She was ademocrat, a spiritual democrat. And then with women, and gay men too,sometimes, he would get the moment when they tried subtly to ascertain if theycould possibly be right in their first impression that Iris was wearing hardlyany makeup. There was a way they widened their eyes briefly and then focusedagain. Iris