My feature piece on Walser and Jelinek published in The Quarterly Conversation: http://quarterlyconversation.com/walking-with-walser ( )

This is a two star book based on our goodreads ratings. It was simply "it was OK". But based on what else is out there in the marketplace and how beautiful the book actually is, I have to give it three stars instead. But that still does not mean "I liked it". And I am not going to review this book either as I am not an art person with any training at all except for knowing what I like, and this ain't it. I do like the rambles of Robert Walser and what he has to say about them. I also like to hear what others have to say about Walser if they actually knew him too. What I don't like is somebody riding on his coattails which I have to say, respectfully, smelled as if this might be happening here. I also respect the dead (who have no voice) and have no idea who the curator was or what important work he had performed throughout his lifetime being involved with the arts. So, it is not fair for me to pass judgment here. And for complete disclosure I will confess to never having shown any of my own art in a gallery except for my own address I rented in a shitty place called the Mellwood Arts Center, and though I was stuck in a crappy lease for a good two years I was only open for business once, at night during a Trolley Hop and I sold three matted and signed original photographs. I think I sold a couple of my paintings at our moving sale back in 2008. I know I have only sold a few dozen of my six books I have been involved with. I have only done two poetry readings my entire life, though I could have done plenty more of them but I don't like the public or even myself when I am speaking. I could go on, but I won't. My point again is this: A Little Ramble is a pretty book, well-designed, and something I would be proud of by the looks of it. I would have been more than satisfied with the production if there had been more of real Walser and less contemporary artists and what they have to say about their friend who died. I am currently quite obsessed myself with Robert Walser and also those who have been moved by him enough to write colossally fantastic literary artworks of their own such as W.G. Sebald who has done this act in spades. And because of these two artists I am now even more over my head with new studies of Stefan Zweig and Franz Kafka, among others. The problem with this book, for me anyway, is that I was so excited to get it, I eagerly paid my cash in advance and waited, and when I received the limited edition book I was struck by its beauty and wished I had bought more copies as the price is surely to skyrocket when it goes out of print. But after reading the book and looking at the clay shoes and blank pictures of so-called paintings and such, I am wishing to sell the book back as most of the Walser stuff I already had, and the other stuff I did not need in order for me to feel complete. I am sorry I am such a hater. There is a part of me that just cannot seem to stop this behavior. But it isn't because I try to hate, and it does not mean I will always be this way. My hard feelings are because it did not buy me out. It turned me on and then it just, you know, it was just there, just being, in all its glory, just expecting and waiting for my praise like everybody else out there is bound to give it for doing and being such a wonderful thing of beauty or such a profoundly genius work of art. Because, and I did not want to say this, the book is just not what it appears to be. And this cat is not fooled by all its ornaments and use of famous quotes and blurbs by ones who matter in the dumb-down world we presently live in. My bet is that Bob would not have liked this book. He would have had plenty to say about it on his walk with Carl Seelig after getting away for some precious quiet time away from the crazies in the bughouse. But then again, Walser we hear was a pretty nice guy. He might not have said anything except to have been gracious that somebody thought so much of him to make a book in his honor. He wasn't at all like my favorite Austrian of all-time Thomas Bernhard. Now there is a hater for you. Rancor is the operative word for this fine gent. And the more I think about it the more I have to wish I would have stopped myself up there at the very first sentence, or better yet, said nothing about this book at all because I had such high hopes for it. And now this. A crappy review about a book guaranteed to soothe a few and rankle already irritable people like me. Just forget you read this pitiful review. Especially if you have gotten yourself, so painfully I'm sure, this far. ( )