The massive "modernist trilogy" that Will Self has engendered this decade at an awe-inspiring clip began masterfully with UMBRELLA and has managed to somehow improve with each of the subsequent two books, terminating in PHONE, which is truly one of most astonishing novels I have ever read. If UMBRELLA possessed a liability it was that its partial focus on post-encephalitic patients emerging from their protracted stupors set it on ground already exhaustively mined by Oliver Sachs in AWAKENINGS. It is commonplace for commentators to remark upon the modernist trilogy's debt -- it is a modernist trilogy after all -- to Virginia Woolf and James Joyce. If UMBRELLA was more Woolf, SHARK, with its atomizing lysergic entropy (LSD factors in) and comparative inhibition, would appear to be the more Joycean work. PHONE is the work that seems most married to the present moment and is by some measure the most forward-looking. While there were a few infrequent (and perhaps merciful) paragraph breaks in UMBRELLA, both SHARK and PHONE consist of one unbroken paragraph apiece. The novel-length paragraph was more or less pioneered by Thomas Bernhard, who deployed the form to create obsessional, incendiary, eddying works that endlessly backed-up on themselves. Other writers who have subsequently composed pieces built of single lengthy unbroken paragraphs (in some cases single lengthy unbroken sentences) have tended likewise to often ape the obsessional snake-endlessly-swallowing-its-own-tail methodology (with attendant rhythms). We may wish to think of László Krasznahorkai and of William Gaddis's AGAPĒ AGAPE, a short bilious novel explicitly inspired by Bernhard. Self's modernist trilogy owes little if anything to Bernhard. Far from being repetitive, miserablist, and meditative, these three novels are febrile, variegated, and, as film critics Manny Farber said of "termite art," "leave nothing in (their) path other then signs of eager, industrious, unkempt activity." Self's modernist trilogy is not comprised of inward-looking reflections but rather looking-all-over all-consuming pulsions. When these books aren't rhizoming, they are bulldozing. These unbroken paragraphs dazzlingly reach across space and time. The puncta occasioning transitions from one domain to another (sometimes bridging events separated by miles and decades) are instituted so craftily that we risk gliding over them wholly unaware. Reading SHARK I recall often realizing I had no idea when I slipped from one domain to another. This never happened in the comparatively sober PHONE. (The transitions here are uniformly terrific, and the one involving the chocolate soldier is one of the most extraordinary tour de force literary passages I have ever encountered.) The title of the third and final novel of the trilogy is ideal for a network novel about our current hyper-connected world. It is indeed the smartphone that is perhaps the central component of our perpetual, intractable connectedness (a wordly condition despite which most remain woefully spiritually disconnected). Just such a phone is introduced early on in the possession ex-psychiatrist / psychonaut Zack Busner (a central Will Self character who extends into the author's oeuvre beyond this particular trilogy), whose autistic grandson, in lieu of Zack's increasing senility, has helped supply him with a smartphone as a means of keeping him tethered to the world. PHONE takes the form of a stream-of-cosnciousness where the consciousness is that of the network. The phone, the cloud, the datastream. The brain itself (so often compromised in Self) is part of the network, itself part datastream. Self writes of the "neurofibrillary tangle," so germane to the domain of autism but perhaps also a metaphor for the modernist trilogy itself. While these books are additive (they build and are productive) we may also wish to frame them as subtractive, exclusionary (as Roland Barthes, were he still around, might emphasize). These novels are galloping data dumps, but implicit to the networks they traverse is the reality of all the human minds and human lives (and the encounters thereof) going full-on twenty-four-seven. In terms of the web (especially in relation to social media) it is customary to invoke the "hive mind," but Self's dip into the squall reminds us that the hive mind extends above and beyond (and predates) the World Wide Web as we popularly understand it. PHONE doesn't just tap into the datastream; it invents prodigiously and plays bravura literary games. It is often darkly hilarious. There are myriad approaches fielded and worked out. The novel even breaks into dazzling absurdist playlet at one point. These novels flow. Appropriate for appropriations of the datastream. They cascade. PHONE is a river among all the other things I have called it or intimated at, although sometimes it has to buffer, establish network connections, that little spinning disk literally materializing. How can you account for the fact that I read this daunting 617 page novel in four days? Flow, intensity, its grip. Nobody else I am aware of is writing like this. I suspect that you have to spend many, many years practicing your craft and making a name for yourself in order to get away with something like this trilogy. It is a culmination and a testament. Readers of UMBRELLA and SHARK will be aware that those books include disparate plot strands and offset narrative regimes. If such readers are wondering whether convergencies and confluences occur in PHONE, I will say simply that yes they do and it is flipping extraordinary. (One has to wonder how far into the conception and execution of the trilogy Self knew what the last line was going to be.) THE novel of Now. Dig it.