Customer Reviews

My Desk and I

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After reading "My Desk and I", I was puzzled. I enjoyed it. I really enjoyed it. I asked myself how come? It's not like me. My taste runs to books written at least a century ago. I figure if its been around that long, it must have merit. I'm a slow, plodding reader. I can't afford to waste effort and time on something I am likely to abandon after wading through a tedious 100 pages or so. An even bigger puzzlement was: what was it I just read? No doubt the literati assign special descriptive words for books of this sort (assuming there are any). Is it "stream of conscience"? Post modernism? Post realism? Post deconstructionist? I've never attended a literature course, so I haven't the foggiest. The author's story lines, to the extent there are any, go nowhere. Furthermore, they deal in the banal, the trivial, the fleeting day to day, moment to moment, minutiae of everyday life. It doesn't seem to matter. This writer quite obviously cares not a twit about plot. His arena consists of the thoughts and feelings we have when nothing important is
going on. Such feelings as blind ambition, heroic struggle, love, fear, envy, and hate are for those lesser lights who require a hook to hold your interest. Dixon will have none of that. Yet, hold your interest he most assuredly does -- through craftsmanship, through insight. If Tolstoy
might be compared to Copernicus, the architect of the big picture, of the churning, smashing, exploding, revolving, massive universe, then Dixon's world is that of Max Planck on a quiet day, the peeper into the hidden, the unseen, the sub-atomic infinitesimal, which comprise the building
blocks of all there is. Reading Dixon is not just a delight; it's a revelation of our inner selves.