Sometimes our lives are enigmas.
Sometimes our art is.
Sometimes our artists are.
Pablo D'Stair hits the trifecta.
Lucy can only try to understand herself.
The first thing that occurs to you when you pick up a volume of D'Stair is that it has no business being good. No credentials. None of the usual apparatus that tells you a book has appeared: publishers, agents, press releases. The industry didn't cough this one up. The second thing, once you start to turn the slippery pages, is: how the Hell can such good writing come from nowhere? Who the Hell is Pablo D'Stair, anyway? The final note, the one that makes D'Stair a little troubling, is that this writing is a voice inside your head. Nothing can prepare you for that ... Pablo D'Stair is defining the new writer. There is NO ONE else. As reckless as Kerouac's 120-foot trace paper, D'Stair's independence from all of us needs to be studied and celebrated ... This is revolution. Each word seems to want to wage war. Nothing is settled, nothing is as it should be - and we know as we read and it starts to sink in that this is how things are ... D'Stair's late realism needs to be included in any examination of the condition of the novel.