![]() ![]() But despite its irreverence, Wittgenstein’s Mistress hews ever more closely to philosophical terror. Slipped significations form the phantom scaffolding of a comedy, something like “Who’s on Second” as told by a depressive metaphysician. The document doubles as a rumination on the inadequacy of language. Kate, the aforementioned woman, lives on an empty beach - no apocalyptic event is offered - where she composes a daily record of memories and loosely associated facts. It is lonely in its premise (the last woman on earth meditates on language, history, and culture), lonely in its publication journey (Markson’s manuscript was famously rejected fifty-four times), lonely in its execution (a monologue of obsessive consciousness), and lonely-making in its ultimate effect upon the reader. ![]() ![]() David Markson’s Wittgenstein’s Mistress (1988) is the loneliest of American novels. ![]()
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