In which I gush some more about William T. Vollmann.

This is one of those posts I sometimes write because I start getting the feeling that Bent Country has converted back to its original form—a mostly unfurnished room where the sound of my own voice becomes more interesting than usual.

I'm reading William T. Vollmann again, which is always dangerous. He writes so fluidly and so well, like a water hose of perfectly combined words that is stuck and sort of spraying all over the yard of literature. Not to mention if you look up the prolific in the dictionary there's an awesome picture of William T. Vollmann with an amazing bowl haircut.

The book of his I'm reading is called The Atlas. I saw somewhere about a month back that someone cited it as their favorite book. A writer, which, let's be honest, carries far more weight than, well, more average readers, for lack of a better term.

It is for sure all it's cracked up to be, though. Vollmann can stop a reader in their tracks about as good as anybody working. Browse THE ATLAS at Goodreads.