We were feeling something they never had— a physical link into the world of the fictional— through the skeletal muscles of the arm to the joystick to the tiny person on the screen, a person in an imagined world. It was crude but real.
Father, forgive me, for I have sinned: it’s been a month since I last read Austin Grossman’s second novel You, and I still haven’t reviewed it. I’m not even sure how to approach reviewing it. I read it. I loved it, despite a few misgivings. I thought about it a lot. I went back and reread a few chapters, to see if I really loved it as much as I thought I did, and to see if those few misgivings were really justified. I did, and they were, yet I still didn’t know how to sum up my reading experience in such a way that it would possibly make sense for others.
