I.

I cannot recommend this novel more highly. Dixon travels between acute humour and sadness, with everything in between, unselfconsciouslessly moving beyond his own metafictional self-consciousness. The last section of I. is profoundly moving in an absolutely unconventional way. Dixon's writing is both transgressive and accessable, and I hope that in the coming years he will begin to recieve the wider readership that he has so long deserved.

Dixon doest it again. One of his best books ("Frog" and the amazing "Interstate" are the others, I guess, but anything by Dixon is something special). A modern writer who has been modern since decades and will be modern in ages. So are the true classics. Pure talent and good proof that you can be clever and moving in the same sentence.

From the cover to the last page, I. is a terrific book. I've read a few of Stephen Dixon's novels. Some I liked very much and others I respected but struggled to finish. This one may be the most affecting of them all, and it's also a pleasure to read. The emotions are rich and varied. The 'stories' are engrossing for the most part, and the overall impact of them as the book progresses is sneaky, powerful, and sad. The final piece truly is heartbreaking and lovely. Lastly, I must say that the McSweeney's m.o. of tricky storytelling and wacky narratives rarely appeals to me. I was surprised to see that Dixon took his book to them. But by the end of I., I knew why he published with them and why they took it: Dixon really presents the 'uncertain' narrative in a way that is incredibly human and that justifies the use of these techniques. All in all, I. may be Dixon's best book yet and it was certainly a good publishing move for McSweeney's to make. Clowes' cover is great, too.

It's obvious that the reviewer from Helmet, AZ hasn't read the book. He (or she) doesn't mention anything remotely cogent about this novel in particular. It's understandable that he doesn't like Dixon's writing in general, but to slander a writer's new work purely based on personal hatred seems plain wrong. That being said, the novel "I" is a remarkably entertaining and funny book. Although the subject matter is alarming, and sometimes grim, Dixon's way of telling of the story always shines with wit. I very much recommend it.

This, in my opinion, is Dixon's most personal and emotionally satisfying novel. "I." is constructed as interconnected stories that examine the various junctions of the life of "I.", a writer who bears much resemblance to Dixon himself. In some chapters, the character contemplates his mortality by comparing his situation with his wife's. In a brilliant, horrific, and funny chapter called 'The Switch', the character imagines that he's bound to the wheelchair, helpless, instead of his wife who in reality is stricken with the illness. Dixon's strengths as a writer shines forth here as I. contemplates and imagines his suicide and its aftermath. The narrative technique is unassuming, but dazzling. Much of the book also deals with recollection and memory, and there are sections when Dixon recalls a particular moment, then stops and realizes something is amiss, then starts all over again by retelling the tale. It's a fine narrative contemplation of the nature of memory and the shifting veracity of recalled details and truths. Dixon's authorial interruption is never contrived, but rather heightens the effect of blurring the line between the fictional character and the author himself. No narrative device serves as pure pyrotechinics; the last chapter 'Again' is resolute and deeply moving as I. (or maybe Dixon himself) remembers and reconstructs the first meeting with his wife over and over again, until finally the story inevitably evolves into a love story of a man who loves this woman, regardless of her illness and despite his having to adjust his life for her. The writing is never sentimental, and it's straightforward. Dixon's paragraphs sometimes run for pages, and they remind you of Thomas Bernhard's eloquent paragraphs - but Dixon's style is more accessible. This is writing that's disturbingly funny, affecting, and serious (in the best sense of the word). There isn't an American writer like him, and his recognition is well overdue. A fine book.