I think I need to keep a journal of my reading of this book. It is that big a world. I've reached page 108, near the end of a chapter Vollmann calls "Subdelineations: Lovescapes (2001)," the first of several chapter titles that begin with the word subdelineations that appear to be more personal in nature than the other chapters that, so far, have functioned, sometimes literally, as delineations of Imperial (the book) & of Imperial County, an arid place in California. The book is both an attempt at knowledge and even understanding of this particular place as well as an admission of the impossibility of anything like the complete knowledge of a place, which would have to be, Vollmann notes, the sum total of all the people who have looked at it or lived in it however long or briefly. This first subdelineation is about the breakup of a love affair: Vollmann tells the reader that his lover of many years has left him. "I just can't take this anymore," she says, but we never know what this consists of. The author, wisely, I think, doesn't say. Vollmann probably doesn't know either; or he both knows and doesn't know. What he does know is how it makes him feel and that is what this chapter is about. In order to understand Imperial (To italicize or not? County in California or book?), the reader must understand the author's life in the place and his life in the book. It takes courage to write this way. This particular chapter is rawly emotional, but that's only part of what I mean; it take aesthetic courage to believe so throughly in the inclusive principle of literary composition that you include what happened to you as you wrote the book. It's impossible of course because it leads to an endless recursion, which is one definition of madness. Vollmann courts madness, but is one of the lucky few who are saved by the demands and strictures of his art. I like Vollmann. I admire his impulse toward the exhaustive. Reminds me a little of Norman Mailer, but without Mailer's brittle machismo.