In Barry Gifford’s world, places have names, & the people who reside between the walls of his cramped rooms, Italian villas, & Southern tracthouses, the horizons of his empty highways, they have them too. They are all worth remembering. Like the late Eugene O’Neill, Gifford was born in a hotel room. Gifford however, unlike O'Neill, appears to have survived, & unlike O'Neill, will not be returned to eternity in the same setting. Rather, his peripatetic, transient nature, fluidly combining elements of pulp narrative, poetry, & melodrama in his myriads of combinations & texts, seems an ordinary companion to this origin. And perhaps just the reason he & his work live on.