Mesmerized by L.A.’s Dreamy Literature

Alan Rifkin’s article on Southern California Dream Realism mesmerized me (“Writing in the Dust,” Nov. 13). It definitely was a three-cup read, the deepest read I’ve had on a Sunday morning since my college days.

It helped explain my persistent uneasiness with L.A., despite living here for 20-plus years. It also offered possible insight into the “alien” perspective on life embraced by my children, who were born in L.A. (I was not.) Therein may lie the defining wellspring of our generation gap.

Hortense Callahan Bradley

Los Angeles

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When I first read Rifkin’s contention that the fantastical literature of Los Angeles is “the only American fiction . . . that’s really worth reading,” I thought, “Has he read Marilynne Robinson’s ‘Gilead’ or even Michael Cunningham’s ‘Specimen Days’?” If those aren’t literature, I don’t know what is.

But after I read the article, I realized that he makes a good case for this visionary, transcendent writing being a reflection of the only hope we have for humanity’s survival--a shift to a higher consciousness of the world beyond the five senses, where the definition of reality is as permeable as the boundaries of L.A.

Mary Jeanne Hawes

Newport Beach

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I’m honored to have been included with such distinguished company in Rifkin’s article. But my next novel, originally titled “Slipstream,” has had its name changed to “There Will Never Be Another You,” which, I hope, also carries implications of magic and enchantment.

Carolyn See

Via the Internet