WHITE JAZZ stared at me from the shelf for two years before I cracked it open. I read a few pages and put it down, annoyed. It was confusing. I couldn't adapt to its beat. But I picked it up again and plunged in deeper. The rhythm of the staccato prose kicked in. The urgency of the plot swept me up. This stench of corruption overwhelmed me. It was intricate, complex, assured -- brilliantly freeform but always tightly structured. Late night reading led to swirling nighttime visions -- jazz that kept playing long after the pages had been slammed shut. Dangerous. Addictive. Feverish stuff.