How was the writer ever going to tie up such a complicated plot? What was he or she going to do with all those characters and their noisy, difficult yearnings? And what was it all supposed to mean? As we circle these questions, the author becomes paradoxically more and more present to us in the work left behind.
For some reason I have always been drawn to these works, though perhaps it is the stewing idea of a longer essay on dying writers that has long been gestating.
One day, too, I will finally compose a syllabi of my own.