Open Daily: 10am - 10pm | Alley door pickup 10am - 7pm 3038 Hennepin Ave Minneapolis, MN
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  • Open Daily: 10am - 10pm
    Alley-side Pickup: 10am - 7pm

    3038 Hennepin Ave Minneapolis, MN
    612-822-4611

Open Daily: 10am - 10pm | Alley-side Pickup: 10am - 7pm
3038 Hennepin Ave Minneapolis, MN
612-822-4611
Moonlight & Snow: Poetry and Prose of D. B. Wallace

Moonlight & Snow: Poetry and Prose of D. B. Wallace

McCarty Phd, P.

Paperback

Series: The Collected Works of D. B. Wallace, Book 2

Fiction Anthologies

ISBN10: 150776572X
ISBN13: 9781507765722
Publisher: Createspace
Published: Jan 28 2015
Pages: 76
Weight: 0.44
Height: 0.16 Width: 8.50 Depth: 11.02
Language: English
D. B. Wallace is a find as exciting in the telling as Wallace is in himself. He surely speaks to every human being who has ever been misunderstood. --The Literary Times of ICG/iCNN D. B. Wallace was known to his neighbors as the man in apartment 112. He occupied this space for more than 40 years. Nothing is known of how he provided for himself. Nothing is known of his antecedents, of the existence of family or friends. In fact, it is virtually impossible to separate fact from fiction with respect to him. That he was talked about there can be no doubt. That those who talked knew anything of what they spoke seems improbable. It would be fair to say that he was something of a neighborhood institution and, as such, opinion was divided as to whether he was insane or otherwise mentally defective, whether an eccentric recluse or, as a slim few maintained, a genius preoccupied with his own muse. Moonlight & Snow was his final manuscript. It seems to be unfinished, but some have found in it an intricate coherence that suggests the opposite. His corpus is currently being published in reverse chronological sequence. 40,000 pages of text-poetry, prose and this (what he called poetic prose)-were stacked about a deal table and chair. No indication was ever uncovered that any of the manuscripts was intended for publication. Though the author of numerous novels and hundreds of short stories, Wallace always experienced the demands of plot as an artistic constraint. Plot, he maintained, creates the greatest possible distraction. A text, he repeats frequently in his notes, is like the smell of a cigar. It isn't about anything other than itself, the feeling shades of being alive. He seems to have seen the loss of this intuitive awareness, as an aesthetic and a philosophy of life, as very much at the heart of contemporary global distress. It would not be fair to describe his work as pessimistic. His voice, so incredibly distinctive, seems informed at every point by what he himself called the sacred.

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