Still the very first few pages. I’ll stop before PS Publishing has to sue me for showing too much of the book :)
Here’s you have an example of VERY unreliable narrator who at the same time expresses the typical narcissism of an artist for his art. I love Erikson’s original use of language, filled with creativity and love for words.
Only Erikson could write “a sudden expostulation of amorous possibility”. And in spite of this indulgence in the use of language I admire that everything that is written has still a meaning and it’s not just there for empty embellishment (Gene Wolfe for example is even more indulgent).
If you wonder what exactly IS the art of writing, if it comes so far from plausibility, here’s the distilled idea, perfectly summarized by our narrator who admits of being unreliable:
And here an example of half-serious remark that still stays in a parodic context (here not shown):