From David Markson's edition of The Waste Land, recently bought by some lucky bugger at the Strand.

My friend Ethan paid not enough money for a heavily annotated edition of Hart Crane’s poetry, an even more heavily annotated T.S. Eliot, and a beautiful volume of Melville’s shorter works, with every one of Bartleby the Scrivener’s ‘I would prefer not to’s underlined. (‘Melville, late along, possessed no copies of his own books,’ Markson wrote in Vanishing Point.)

In summer 2000 I explained to an editor at Grand Street that this epigraph to The Waste Land was the source of the name of Sibylla, and that features of the text marking the fact that the character was an Anglicised American influenced by Eliot, including influence of Silver Latin on Donne, were essential to the book, had been established in the version approved for publication in volume form, and were not to be removed. He explained that American readers would not recognise the allusions and therefore the text must be altered for the benefit of American readers.

Since my arguments carried no weight I hired the Wylie Agency to fight my corner (Andrew Wylie told me he could settle the matter with a phone call). This went badly wrong.

Is this dull? Yes, this is dull.

Was this a long time ago? Yes, it was a horribly long time ago.

Markson books on sale at the Strand, story at LRB blog, here.

a mortuis nil litterarum

June 2010 David Markson died in.

It would be fitting if his gravestone had "Wittgenstein" misspelled on it.
As he suggested The Recognitions was misspelled on Gaddis'.

As soon as it was established that I had an enormous, blush-inducing crush on David, he promptly pulled a salacious book from the sexuality section, written by an old Playboy Bunny, in which she describes not only how cool and smart David was, but how impressive a lover.
Said Theresa, five decades his junior.

Pretty much the high point of experimental fiction this century, David Foster Wallace called Wittgenstein's Mistress.

It is and it is not a sad day when an old man passes away. But I will remember him wonderfully, well, and long.
Remarked Hannah.

Jeff Laughlin obit of David Markson at the Awl

All the best writers write at 3.21 am

Unaccustomed to public speaking, Mithridates rashly offers to speak at an academic conference,

Having no idea that conference papers generally require time, effort. Prior excogitation, pen-to-paper, that sort of thing: ideas, in short, Eden-new to our man. Thinking You just go up there. Thinking You just go up there and you talk and then you stop talking and you sit down again, 's all.

discovers his mistake

Well, inaugural conference commences, first round of talks goes by, day before our hero's coming out, and he's bathroom-bound, trying mightily (and failing the same) to prevent achy innards from spilling onto the linoleum.

Thinking Sweet suffering Iesus. I'll be whipped howling from the village by these people. Laugh in my face, berate me for wasting their time.

Craven guts feebly cradled, jellied legs ajitter.

Friends provide any succor?

Hey, M., I say, what's your spiel for domani's powwow?

M. says: I'm talking about eunuch narratives. Hacked and chiselled at the thing for two months. Think it's about ready. Rerererevisions tonight of course. And you too I guess?

He's assured it'll be worth his nickel.

Lord, he whom thou lovest is sick.

and writes a Marksonian post on a) the agony and b) the ecstasy of hearing David Markson talk at the Strand. All here