Perhaps one of the most incandescent literary cases of recent years.
This picture of 1920 we project an image to Jack London, a jumble of mixed colony superomismo Nietzche water and whiskey archeopugilato misty taverns in the North West, except that our James D. Compton was suffering from a heart disease that prevented him guncotton to ascend to the heights of American fiction sbrilluccicanti primonovecentesca.
Although he has a style, so to speak, softly earthquake (and here peeps Faulkner) combined with a touching tone that makes him a forerunner of Kerouac, he left us on our pages where there is an irreducible identity writing as in the few but emblematic lines to follow:
[...]" If Rose had called Beth Louise or I could love her, because after all, since childhood, I had loved the unrealized potentials in the giant fence and grazing of a contingency that began between Lawrence Ave to end before the cobbler's shop next to his uncle Ralph "[...]
from" Never leave a hat on the bed, "Simon and Schuster, forthcoming.
Magma Compton's narrative is fascinating and often autobiographical though oblivious to lessons or vanguard of a strong cultural heritage (the only affinity with London martinediana of memory), if you grant me the chance that his is a world view embraces a poignant and naive solipsism lit / nte that the unites all 'Idiot Dostoevsky.
Curious is also the site of his departure, the shroud from Baltimore who had ravaged the body of Poe and the date thereof (October 23, 1929), a day before the stock market crash.
E 'therefore a great pity that, in addition to being died in the prime of life, never existed.
Sciarlselisé
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