Larry McCaffery

Raymond Federman has already produced a major body of mind-and-genre expanding books. His latest work, LOOSE SHOES--his first story collection--is a poignant, fun-filled collection of unclassifiable "micro-fictions" that pack a macro-wallop of readerly enjoyment. Here Federman continues his obsessive exploration of life, death, sex, and memory from the perspective of someone reflecting back in the twilight of his existence fully aware that he's already been there, done that but who insists that it's the recounting of life's adventures and misadventures that matters. Certainly as far as THIS recounting is concerned, he's right.

Doug Rice

Ray Federman's loose shoes are uncomfortable. They irritate the skins of genre and discourse. Federman's shoes create blisters on the souls (sic) of readers who want to remain comfortably numb and read in the same as it ever was patterns. These texts are short, confusing, bastards. Where they came from, I'll never know. (Although it has been suggested in police briefs that Federman photocopies the tongues of others while claiming [through indeterminate speech] to be an author.) All of Federman's writing stares down into the abyss and mutters: are you my daddy? Curses. Dictations. Oh, and Federman, does so with exuberance. The kind of exuberance (dare I say, jouissance? Yes, I dare. Actually I am not saying, I am echoing, but I digress) ... Let me begin again, The kind of exuberance that only a Frenchman wandering the streets of Detroit experiences.

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