Shurin goes on dizzying metaphysical tangents that expand not only the mind, but the possibilities of writing. The world has an ethereal quality that passes over him, under him and through him. He is most at home with nature, offering up lush descriptions of foliage and flowers. He resides and writes in beautiful, inspiring places that are not so much romantic as romanticized--even his aesthetically pleasing apartment is as carefully coiffed as his once self-conscious, youthful head. We see his need for organization around his writing--he cannot write until he's made the bed As with Dillard (and, for that matter, Thoreau) this idea of holing up in some idyllic location to write fascinates me. I wish Sharin had shared more about his cloistered process in these locations.
Sharin has a way of taking the simplest situation or location and gilding it with a blend of abandon and specificity. He sets a fire under the scene, bringing it immediately up to the light. However, some of his subjects are, perhaps, too mundane: Why does he admit to the indulgent, tiresome, narcissitic telling of dreams only to do just that? I do not find his stream-of-consciousness while taking a stroll or lying in a hammock to be particularly compelling. Should we care about these things simply because it is he who is doing them? I am more interested in his unique perspective on the emergence of the sixties revolution (a subject that, without his queer take, has been beaten to death.)
Sharin's song-like, chanting list of what he is makes for a humorous and revealing way to get to know him: "homophile, bibliophile..." We also get to know him through his relationship with books, which he perceives as living entities: "strapped to the passenger seat." He reacquaints himself with Proust, years later, and builds an entire chapter around the word: abattoir--an appealing idea for a writing exercise. Shurin's lush language was simply not enough to make me care about what he had to say. His devices illuminate his own shadows, making him "king" of his own domain, to be sure, but a bit too precious, at that.
Sharin has a way of taking the simplest situation or location and gilding it with a blend of abandon and specificity. He sets a fire under the scene, bringing it immediately up to the light. However, some of his subjects are, perhaps, too mundane: Why does he admit to the indulgent, tiresome, narcissitic telling of dreams only to do just that? I do not find his stream-of-consciousness while taking a stroll or lying in a hammock to be particularly compelling. Should we care about these things simply because it is he who is doing them? I am more interested in his unique perspective on the emergence of the sixties revolution (a subject that, without his queer take, has been beaten to death.)
Sharin's song-like, chanting list of what he is makes for a humorous and revealing way to get to know him: "homophile, bibliophile..." We also get to know him through his relationship with books, which he perceives as living entities: "strapped to the passenger seat." He reacquaints himself with Proust, years later, and builds an entire chapter around the word: abattoir--an appealing idea for a writing exercise. Shurin's lush language was simply not enough to make me care about what he had to say. His devices illuminate his own shadows, making him "king" of his own domain, to be sure, but a bit too precious, at that.
