art of fiction henry james odor of - Google Search

I am the boy That can enjoy Invisibility. Phantasmal mirth, folded away: muskperfumed.

So what would a prose literature devoted to illness sound like? Perhaps it could only exist in the form of the essay, of which genre Woolf’s opening sentence is both an elegant part-for-whole and a less than obvious parody.

William Gass’s novel Omensetter’s Luck.