Greg Jackson’s The Dimensions of a Cave, one of the more accomplished American novels of the twenty-first century, begins in imagery that lends substance to a recurring form:
Read Full Article »The island clung to the mainland by a spit of sandbar as low and shingled as a manicured walk and could not therefore be properly called an island. Still we called it that, “the island,” and at times, when the ocean cycles and planets aligned, the perigean king tide with its liquid cargo brought the water up over the lip of that persistent littoral, briefly severing all tie to the shore and bringing the fact of the land into sympathy with its name.
