I first came across the singular writings of Carole Maso about ten years ago, when she submitted to the journal I help edit a piece of what is known as poetic prose. Although we passed on the manuscript, it made such a strong impression on me that I decided to investigate Maso’s extant oeuvre. Nor was I disappointed. For the rest of her work, consisting at that point of several “novels,” turned out not only to equal but indeed to surpass the tantalizing sample I had seen. I began to follow her career with real interest, as she moved from Columbia to Brown (where until recently she directed the Creative Writing program), won a Lannan fellowship, and published yet more “novels,” among other books. Not that I’ve actually bought any of these. But each time I spy a new Maso production, I eagerly open it and drink in, like a great gust of Giorgio perfume, the unmistakable aroma emanating from its pages, until finally I...


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