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As we at The L
have mentioned time
and time again
, Scott McClanahan is a writer you truly need to experience. His prose may work fine on the page, but something about his West Virginia drawl; his invocation of recorded voices and sounds to enhance settings and dialogue; the simultaneous confidence in the performance and apologetic, shy shrugs; the dexterity of his tongue; and his manner of getting in your face with his words so literally, you flinch—something about it all makes the room take a collective breath. You know, in a good way.
It’s no wonder he consistently earns comparisons to some kind of religion-less preacher, with his powerful, ritualistic repetition of such phrases as “nothing lasts” and “please tell me I exist and I will tell you you exist.” To see him is to make a memory that you will not soon forget.