Clarence addressed his ball and drew his driver back over his head with a studied creakiness. Everything by the book, RC though. Clarence was like that. When he was fully wound up, he uncoiled all at once. His club whistled. He clobbered the ball and then nodded, accepting the shot like a personal compliment.
Which is how I hope Jonathan Franzen accepts paragraphs of vivid description like this when they come out of his typewriter. A sprawling, impressive novel with details in the plot so unusual and so seemingly out of kilter with the times we live in that you can’t help but like it. Can a novel this massive and dense be described as quaint?
Your Correspondent, This I know, his teeth as white as snow