Clouds

A man sits in a motel room. He has his shoddy possessions in two suitcases; six books, and his diary wrapped in a green garbage bag. He is driven in upon himself, talking, talking, engaging the rhythmic reoccurrence of moments of memory, his life. He is a writer who does not write, a diarist who does not keep his diary. But his life-like the traffic that rumbles by his motel room window-surges through him. This is a novel of powerful feeling, a world acutely observed, charged by articulate obsession.