As much as any book I know, Crippled Detectives transcribes the dream state, not just in its flights of fancy and logic-jumping juxtapositions, but in the mutating narrative tactics, the topsy-turvy focus … [it] is a wonderfully sustained performance, a triumph of authorial impulse that never bores or confuses even as it runs circles around the helpless, happy reader.
I forgot to mention that Lee Tandy Schwartzman was all of seven years old when she wrote it.
“Anne, where are you?” said Sylvia. They found Anne dead with a bullet in her forehead, lying on the floor dying with red fingerprints on the gun and a note which read:
A foolish girl who called the police first sight of me and if you want to live keep the police out of this or you will soon have a blown up Europe and 9,000,000,000,000 dead people including you.
Their parents cried, Lisette screamed, Lee shuddered, and Sylvia gasped and the nurse fainted, but it seemed Anne was laughing. She opened her eyes and stood up. “Good trick I played on that Red Romer,” she said, and all saw her taking a piece of plastic off her forehead. Then everybody started laughing. The nurse woke up and rubbed her eyes and laughed too and went to do research.
read crippled detectives in its entirety here.