Gabriel Wolfson believes that a literature that is not seen with language is not literature. Therefore, his suspicion in the certainty of the plot is radical. Careful of the complexity of his phrases (which progress as annelids as they retreat), he has created a form, based on postponement, that dismantles the principles of that vulgar atavistic form to which the market is worshiped. It is vain to speak of anecdote or argument in the case of Wolfson. History is and is not. That is, it is but as if it were not. Everything in his stories, as in the courts of Kafka, is an anteroom, a labyrinth of deviations whose purpose is to delay (to absurd or madness) the arrival at a center that has been lost.
Such a language, digressive, that slowly advances in spiral towards the nothing, based on the wear, the reduction, the betrayal of the expectations, is a language that runs the risk of not liking. Very few writers among so-called young (or even old) writers would be willing at this time to such audacity. Wolfson's is a difficult but never impassable literature. He knows that form has no value if it is not the form of something, a human data, a critical content. After all, the theme of his stories is precisely that: the weariness of life as a couple or of political life or of life in its attempt (unreasonable) to find the truth, the core, what lives beneath the Parquet, far from our gaze, those termites of the reality that we know only by the ruins that are leaving.