Wilson is not any old biographer. Her books are intense, eclectic and wildly diversionary, her intelligence rising from their pages like steam – and in Spark, the cleverest and the weirdest of them all, she may have found her ultimate subject. It's certainly delicious the way she casts shade on some of those who came before her . . . Her achievement in Electric Spark, a brilliant book by any standards, isn't to explain the writer (this is impossible, and she knows it), but to be somehow carried along in her slipstream. There is an uncanny closeness between biographer and subject at play here, and I find myself wondering whether Wilson didn't feel at times as if her manuscript wasn't a form of automatic writing
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