I swear I had nothing to do with Alain Robbe-Grillet's death this morning. Heck, I didn't even wish him ill. On the other hand, I have to say that of all the nouveau roman writers, I think his work has worn the worst, and as a filmmaker, he wasn't much more than a very slick smut-merchant. But I guess I said all that a few weeks ago.
I will say this in his defense: as writers of fiction-as-a-rarefied-form-of-puzzle-making go, he was moderately amusing, neither as intellectually rigorous as Borges nor as playful as Calvino. And as my mother always tells me, "If you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all." So I'll stop here. for a somewhat more reverential take on the author/director and his work, go here
or here or here.
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