"Why has no thoughtful publisher translated and published all of Guibert's works, in trim editions, each cover graced with his seraphic image? . . . To get Guibert's full message, which isn't light-years apart from Susan Sontag's and Frank O'Hara's New York-based credos (pay attention, live as variously as possible) but that chose for its transmission not the lyric or the essay but the autofiction, the fragmentary self-articulation, casual as a snapshot, would involve questioning straitened notions of what constitutes a polished piece of writing, or a life's work, or an autobiography, or a sexuality, or a successful venture–and learning, instead, to appreciate the cadences of catastrophe, of self-excavating improvisation, and of unknowingness. Futility and botched execution are the immortal matter of Guibert's method. Futility and botched execution–combined, in Guibert's work, with finesse, concision, and a heavy dose of negative capability, which includes curiosity about the worst things that can befall a body–are undying aesthetic and spiritual values, worth cherishing in any literature we dare to call our own."–Wayne Koestenbaum "Bookforum"