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In a narrow, windowless room at the University of Southern California, a group of graduate students is workshopping a short story. Its author is silent as her classmates deliver gentle feedback.
Some suggest minor improvements of pacing, setting, and tone. While they speak, their professor, the novelist Percival Everett, sits quietly at the head of a too-large table, one palm steadied against it, his body swivelling almost imperceptibly from side to side. His head, decorated with errant coils of dark gray hair, is framed by a gargantuan television that hangs behind him, its screen a black expanse. He wears the uniform of a professional Everyman: slacks, button-down, glasses. He talks at a low volume, but the sounds he makes have the electric quality of speech being filtered through a mike.
Everett, who is sixty-seven, deploys negative hyperbole with abandon, especially when describing the capacities of his own mind. The significant insignificance of language has long been a preoccupation of his fiction, which plumbs the failures of storytelling to capture or enhance the experience of life.
The students are quiet. Through one window, I receive a character. I have a vast array of characters in front of me. Through trial and error, I learn that when I receive this character, I put out that one, until I learn that when I get this message, I put out that message. I can become perfect at that. But what have I not learned? The students remain silent. His novels often make fun of genres, or else invent them. He has written Westerns, thrillers, a novella in the style of a Lifetime movie, and a handbook for the management of slaves.
One novel might even appear in another as an object of ridicule. There are the cerebral books, the ones in which his passion for philosophy acts as a narrative engine as powerful as plot. And then there are the realist books, many of them set in the American West. The latter are no less uncanny than the former; they seem only to be drawing on a more embodied experience of life.