Time was losing its orderly candor, time was now officially weak—fitting that she should live out her bad writing. In her exhausted half-waking, Linda reviewed the canon of the car-struck: Camus, Sebald, Barthes, Italo Svevo, okay. Frank O’Hara and Randall Jarrell. Nathanael West, T-boned on his way to Fitzgerald’s funeral, ha. Margaret Mitchell, Stephen King—so there was money in it yet.
