![]() In the default Daytime Novel, actions lead to consequences and characters reckon earnestly with their baggage. How did we ever get the idea that seeing every single detail was a good thing? Anyone who’s eaten dumplings under the eternally three AM-scrutiny of harsh, buzzing fluorescents knows that it’s better in the flattering half-light of the bar, staring into the face of a pretty-much-stranger, the shape half imagined and outlined in traces of neon. The standard narrative gaze tends to be big on illumination, shining a stark, flattening light on whatever it touches, rendering backstory and setting as blandly, embarrassingly visible as pores on the nose of a girl leaning too close to the bathroom mirror. ![]() ![]() ![]() Is there such a thing in literature as “The Nightlife Novel”? If not, they should coin it. New York Is an Endless Feast and I Am Never Full ![]()
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