M. G. Stephens
The Book of It is superb, a poem, a song, a meditation, an aria, a burst of light, a streak of verbal incandescence, at once Shandian, Swiftian, Beckettian, Joycean, and McGrealian. I am also reminded of the verbal pyrotechnics of Flann O'Brien, Richard Brinsley Sheridan, and Oscar Wilde.
