Kathy Acker is a writer whose readership has never gone away, even after her death at age 50 in 1997. There’s some strange margin of the literary world where queers, punks, riot girls and avant-gardists have found reasons to keep turning to her.
In these times, we are constantly assaulted with news so monotonously predictable that it cannot possibly be true. The war goes on. Corruption rules. The economy teeters.
Magical realism has become something of a sappy genre. The book that really put the genre on the map, Gabriel García Márquezs One Hundred Years of Solitude (1967), was not sentimental. Its magical dimension derived from the attempt to find a fictional form for a moment of real violence: the massacre of 3,000 striking United Fruit Company banana plantation workers in 1928.