Kathy Acker's sex-drenched books did a curious thing without the presence of Kathy's body to support them. In "The Madness of Day," Maurice Blanchot says, "I must admit I have read many books. When I disappear, all those volumes will change imperceptibly." I thought Blanchot had lapsed into a pretentious sentimentalism that marred his terrific story. But when Kathy died, I felt her words *rustle* themselves into another position. They "stiffened." Her words moved outward as they adjusted to her death, there was more white space between them. Kathy's life no longer gave them scale, or bound them with a current of tension and changeability.

--Robert Gl├╝ck, "Writing Sex Body"

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