
A lot of contemporary literary fiction does nothing for me. It doesn’t attach to my brain. It’s fine. It’s not intense enough.
My favorite novelist, Virginia Woolf, once wrote in an essay that “moments of great intensity” are what matter most in life and in fiction. After a funeral, she wrote in a letter that she hated “the lack of intensity; the wailing & mumbling.” In 1940, the year Germany bombed London, she wrote in her diary, “I live in intensity.”
Intensity is also the novelist Garth Greenwell’s subject. The word itself appears twice on the first page of his second novel, Cleanness, a subtly ironic title for the dirtiest novel the New Yorker has excerpted in ages. (None of the dirtiest passages appeared in the magazine.)
