By Jeffrey R. Di Leo
A finished exam of 1 of the 20 th century's so much cutting edge writers and critics.
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Extra info for Federman's Fictions: Innovation, Theory, and the Holocaust
New York: Knopf. Klinkowitz, Jerome. 1975. Literary disruptions: The making of a post-contemporary American fiction. Urbana: University of Illinois Press. Moraru, Christian. 2005. Memorious discourse. Madison and Teaneck, NJ: Fairleigh Dickinson University Press. Sukenick, Ronald. 1967. Wallace Stevens: Musing the obscure. New York: New York University Press. ———. 1985. In Form: Digressions on the act of fiction. Carbondale, IL: Southern Illinois University Press. TWO HOW, AND HOW NOT, TO BE A PUBLISHED NOVELIST The Case of Raymond Federman Ted Pelton But there are contemporary reasons for the triumph of the thriller as well.
New York, Viking Press. 26 FEDERMAN’S FICTIONS Klinkowitz, Jerome. 1975. Literary disruptions: The making of a post-contemporary American fiction. 1980, second edition. Urbana: University of Illinois Press. ———. 1998. Keeping literary company: Working with writers since the sixties. Albany: State University of New York Press. Kutnik, Jerzy. 1986. The novel as performance: The fiction of Ronald Sukenick and Raymond Federman. Carbondale: Southern Illinois University Press. ———. 1977. The life of fiction.
From an interview with Federman (1983, 300), quoted in Hartl. 24 FEDERMAN’S FICTIONS 14. For a fuller discussion of the notion of the world as text, see my introduction to Jurij Lotman and Jacques Derrida’s respective notions in my entry on “Text” in the Oxford Encyclopedia of Aesthetics (Di Leo 1998). 15. “My life began in a closet among empty skins and dusty hats while sucking pieces of stolen sugar, outside the moon tiptoed across the roof to denounce the beginning of my excessiveness backtracked into, no wait, wait, that’s not it, ah damn I forgot how it goes, backtracked into, hell, into, oh I got it, into the fragility of my adventure, curiosity drove me down the staircase but I slipped on the twelfth step and fell and all the doors opened dumb eyes to stare at my nakedness, as I ran beneath the sky, yes that’s how it goes I think, as I ran beneath the sky a yellow star struck my chest and all the eyes turned away, then they grabbed me and locked me in a box, rolled me a hundred times over the earth in metaphorical disgrace while they chased each other with stones in their hands and burned all the stars in a furnace, every day they came to touch me, to put their fingers in my mouth and paint me black and blue, but through a crack in the wall I saw a tree the shape of a leaf, and one morning a bird flew into my head, I loved that bird so much that while my blue-eyed master looked at the sun and was blind, I opened the cage and hid my heart in a yellow feather .