I read Jack the Modernist by Robert Gluck

I really love Robert Gluck's writing, to the extent that it feels kind of futile to try and explain. His writing is so intimidatingly transparent and immediate and yet also so dense with his own idiosyncratic ideas and experience that, still, somehow, connect with you like it's the first time hearing someone explain a phenomenon you realize you've been passively observing forever. I love how rich this book is, even if it is, on face, just about realizing the guy you're obsessed with is kind of an emotionally absent flake. But that's the real raw material of life, isn't it?