Like a child who pats a pile of wet sand into turrets and crenelated ramparts, Robert Coover prods at our most banal distractions and vulgar obsessions, nudging them into surreal and alarming forms. His fictions—novels, stories and, in ["A Theological Position"], plays—sound at times like incantations which, as they progress, mount to frenzy. What began slowly, seemingly grounded in homely realistic details, lurches, reels a bit, becomes possessed by manic excitation; the characters' faces dissolve to reveal archetypal forms beneath; time and direction come unglued; the choices a writer makes to send his story one way or another are ignored so that simultaneously all possible alternatives occur and, at the end, as often as not, we find our laughter contracting in our throats because some of Coover's stories can be fearsome indeed.
From fantasies that crowd our minds in idle moments Coover's best tales come. At first simple distractions, the fantasies assume control…. A baby-sitter arrives and, for a moment, her employer is distracted by lust. Images gnaw at the corners of this man's consciousness; certain scenes recur, theme and variations, as the pace accelerates. Which are "real," which imagined? Where, in fact, is the point of departure, the tonic note? (p. 97)
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