Why do I love unfinished books?
Both David Foster Wallace's A Pale King and Woodie Guthrie's House of Earth stick in my mind as examples of shining, hypnotic, beautiful prose. The editor notes in the foreword to A Pale King that the chapters, some marked as "zero drafts," went into the book largely unedited, save for a pass to ensure consistency and eliminate word repetition. I don't know what amount of polish was added to House of Earth, but it certainly reads like an unfinished book. We talk, as writers, about avoiding editing out the spark... I wonder how much of that can remain while maintaining narrative clarity. I wonder if there is some kind of continuum between ecstatic chaos and structured order along which we must determinedly place our work.