Malina by Ingeborg Bachmann

What are we to make of things that are neither didactic nor mimetic? I guess that could be the question of all literature after 1970 or so, especially when it’s something, like this book, that hints at things both familiar and revelatory, so that you feel like there’s a big Truth here if only you could interpret the work in the correct way. Of course, there’s always fractals of truth, both big and small. It’s just about choosing a lens from which to view them.