It’s his most honest book, and consequently his most painful, though of course all the books that have preceded it had their fair share of honesty and pain. The thing that sets I Wished apart is that its subject is mostly stripped bare of the wild fantasies and formal denseness found in Cooper’s earlier novels; while it’s clearly not a memoir or even a non-fiction book, and takes place very much within a literary imagination (with all the attendant surrealism, horror, and sparing humor), it doesn’t hide its aims, and the core essence, for once, is very clear and truthful. It’s just a deep, vulnerable, profoundly sincere meditation on the love Cooper felt and continues to feel for his friend George Miles, the love that stands at the root of his whole artistic project and the grief that has come to define it, and also (this is more typical of Cooper) an interrogation of the capacity of art to make sense of suffering. That he manages to communicate the intensity of his love within the space of less than 150 pages, along the way employing such varied devices as Santa Claus and the Roden Crater, is a testament to the stylistic wizardry he has basically perfected over the 32-odd years since Closer was published. A beautiful, generous, devastating novel.
Reread from December 21st to 24th, 2021: my original review belies the actual formal complexity of the text, which is as dense and strange and kaleidoscopic as any of Cooper’s novelistic experiments. But it’s such a perfectly translucent construction (though not without its secrets, of course) that the emotion comes through as powerfully and resoundingly as if you were reading someone else’s love letter.