Sometimes I read because I want to feel happiness, or sadness, or that mix of fearful excitement and untainted friendship that makes you and your childhood buddies return to your hometown to fight an epic battle against a shapeshifting clown. Yes, sometimes I long for a world less unreal than the one we are living in. Other times I want to be part of a history that never was, or of a future that never will be. And sometimes I’m just curious how life looks through the eyes of a sex-addict med-school dropout who is a direct descendant of Jesus Christ.
These longings are quickly satisfied and, once I’m halfway through a book and too tired to read on, there is little incentive for me to pick it up again. The shelves of my local library are filled with millions of pages depicting everyday life, stereotyped, dramatized, neatly packaged and sent to a world slightly differing in time, space and causality. Because that’s what we want, and, web designers and capitalists agree, what we want is what we get.
Some writers, however, take you to places that are so much larger than everyday life that you cannot but notice the peculiarities of the context you live in. The patterns inherent in the seemingly incessant flow of human life suddenly stick out in all their lovely absurdity and childish predictability. If you are going to read only two stories of this kind in your life and if you are already done with Permutation City, do yourself a favor and make Simon Funk’s After Life your next Saturday evening read.