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mélie Prouveaux, who single-handedly turned theliterary world on its head with her abstract novelsthat jettisoned all narrative conventions, has died.She was 39.
Born Gladys Mae Pawtuckett in Charlotte, North Caro-lina, Prouveaux would oten describe her childhood as“wretched,” “a crash course in bourgeois subjugation,” andalways involving ood doused in syrup.” In a memoir writtenor a college English course, titled “The Rape o Gladys MaePawtuckett: Early Years o a Genius,” Prouveaux stated that,“My parents did everything they could to sufocate me, todeliver unto me the early death they had already succumbedto with their ignorance and conormity.
       
   
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     Responding to these charges in an interview with
Vanity Fair,
Prouveaux’sather—William “Rues” Pawtuckett—responded by saying, “She’s stillticked of about that damn game o Scrabble.” He added, “I tried to use ‘ain’t,’and she went ballistic, screaming,
‘Ain’t
ain’t in the dictionary, you hayseed!’ What’s the big deal? It’s only our measly points; I had no good letters. Hell, Ididn’t even get a double-word score. Christ, it was just a game.Prouveaux red back at her ather’s comments in a
 London Times
inter- view: “His entire, miserable lie has been ‘just a game.’”The uture literary star was a loner in high school. Schoolmates at E.E. Waddell High School recalled her being “aloo,” “distant,” and “strange inthat way where she would just stare at people and write stuf in a journal allday, like Sylvia Plath at a speed-dating seminar.Despite being a social outcast, Pawtuckett showed promise as a writer by being the rst reporter on the
Waddell Spirit
to break the woodshop-spray-room-inhalant scandal, which resulted in the expulsion o several studentsand James “Woody” Reiin, the teacher in charge. This helped Pawtuckett win a ull scholarship to New York University where she enrolled in the Mis-anthropy program with a double minor in English and Psychology. At NYU, Pawtuckett met her uture husband, Grant Lapham. Lapham, achild o a blue-blood Connecticut amily who spent his aternoons working on a rock opera based on the lie o Strom Thurmond titled “The Blacks andthe Blues,” introduced Pawtuckett to modern art by repeatedly making her watch sex scenes rom Andy Warhol’s
 Lonesome Cowboys
. But it was in the world o abstract painting that Pawtuckett ound her muse. With the mu-seums and galleries o New York City as her cathedrals, Pawtuckett becamean apostle or abstract art. Over time, she would start to apply the tenets o avant-garde painting to her own writing.In the winter o 1998, while buying a latte at Starbucks, Pawtuckett be-came embroiled in an argument over the works o Duchamp. For the record,Pawtuckett started the argument with hersel and then orced it upon severalother people. In the midst o the debate, she declared, “I’ve had it with so-called literature. Literature is dead!” The cashier to whom she had directedher comments responded, “Here is your café latte. Would you like to buy ournew Sonic Youth compilation CD?”Pawtuckett, undeterred by the lack o interest rom an underpaid Star-bucks employee, put her nose to the grindstone, experimenting with variousorms designed solely to “destroy literature and teach everyone at the Bur-ritoville Literary Caé on �st Avenue a lesson!” She cranked out a thousand words per week, neglecting her studies altogether, and eventually dropped
 
  out to work in a boutique in the Williamsburg section o Brooklyn that soldT-shirts with “Deend Brooklyn” and an AK-47 spraypainted on the ront(retail $85).These were what Prouveaux later called “the lean years.” “Oh, the strug-gle! I lived like a stray dog. No television, no Internet access, my subscriptionto
The Paris Review
had expired; I was orced to get by on a diet o vegetarianburritos and microwavable eggplant dishes that my parents mailed to meto make up or
le débâcle
Scrabble. But that struggle taught me so much. Ilearned how to simpliy, to cut back, to boil my lie down to the barest es-sences. All great art is made through sufering and so was I.The writer delved into the work o Ellsworth Kelly and other abstract art-ists. She began to approach every aspect o her lie rom an abstract-centricpoint o view. During meals, Pawtuckett reused to eat all o the ood on herplate, leaving hints and suggestions o the ood that was once there so otherpeople’s minds could ll in the gaps. This oten angered the waiters at Ethio-pian and Indian restaurants, who also took great ofense when Pawtuckettailed to tip them. Around this time, she changed her name, eeling thatGladys Mae Pawtuckett was simply “too long and bourgeois.” Pawtuckett de-cided upon the much simpler and more proletarian Amélie Prouveaux.Then, in the spring o 2000, while attending an art installation in Chelseathat consisted o a boom box playing a CD o someone shouting “Cheetos!”repeatedly, Prouveaux devised an ingenious idea or a new novel. Slaving away, reusing to eat so she could sufer or her art, Prouveaux wrote what was to be considered by devoted ans and literary critics as her masterpiece.Simply titled
The
, this novel was a shot red across the bow o the literary establishment. Without any text whatsoever, this book with a single-wordmoniker would take the world by storm. “Dialogue, storytelling, plot, sym-bolism—the aesthetics o literature are as dead as the dinosaur. Literaturehas become a hostage to stories. These concepts have become as cheap asFreudianism.”
The
, with its unexplained title and lack o text, was written by Prouveaux to “allow the reader to ll in the gaps, to suggest their own mean-ing as opposed to being led around like sheep. The what? What does thereader think comes ater
the?
Let them derive the intrinsic nature o the text,rather than orcing them to ocus on its external appearance. While it did not hit the
 New York Times
bestseller list and ailed to receiveany positive reviews,
The
launched a revolution in literature. Bloggers andbookshop sales clerks championed
The
as i it were the second coming o TheBible. Publishers, sensing a trend, rushed to capitalize on Prouveaux’s inno- vation, releasing a slew o sub-par imitations such as Clinton Lowe’s
 Poo
and
of 00

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