+1. I have never read anything else as crazily synesthetic and almost uncomfortably rich as Schulz's writing. It just goes on, page after page (but only a couple hundred in total) of gorgeous and often bizarre imagery. Imagine an author combining Updike's descriptive power and Calvino's fine control of story and myth, then feed that person some hallucinogens, and you might get something like Schulz.
Some snippets:
> all colors immediately fell an octave lower, the room filled with shadows, as if it had sunk to the bottom of the sea and the light was reflected in mirrors of green water
> they blinked in the light; their eyes, still full of night, spilled darkness at each flutter of the eyelids
> there are things that cannot ever occur with any precision. they are too big and too magnificent to be contained in mere facts. they are merely trying to occur, they are checking whether the ground of reality can carry them. and they quickly withdraw, fearing to lose their integrity in the frailty of realization. and if they break into their capital, lose a thing or two in their attempt at incarnation, then soon, jealously, they retrieve their possessions, call them in, reintegrate: as a result, white spots appear in our biography - scented stigmata, the faded silvery imprints of the bare feet of angels, scattered footmarks on our nights and days - while the fullness of life waxes, incessantly supplements itself, and towers over us in wonder after wonder
(And of course, much credit much credit goes to Celina Wieniewska, who translated all this.)
Some snippets:
> all colors immediately fell an octave lower, the room filled with shadows, as if it had sunk to the bottom of the sea and the light was reflected in mirrors of green water
> they blinked in the light; their eyes, still full of night, spilled darkness at each flutter of the eyelids
> there are things that cannot ever occur with any precision. they are too big and too magnificent to be contained in mere facts. they are merely trying to occur, they are checking whether the ground of reality can carry them. and they quickly withdraw, fearing to lose their integrity in the frailty of realization. and if they break into their capital, lose a thing or two in their attempt at incarnation, then soon, jealously, they retrieve their possessions, call them in, reintegrate: as a result, white spots appear in our biography - scented stigmata, the faded silvery imprints of the bare feet of angels, scattered footmarks on our nights and days - while the fullness of life waxes, incessantly supplements itself, and towers over us in wonder after wonder
(And of course, much credit much credit goes to Celina Wieniewska, who translated all this.)