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| 3.72
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| Oct 17, 2001
| Jan 24, 2006
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[image] "Sir, it's almost impossible to report everyone who's on the take," one of the investigators explains it to his chief. "They just think it's pa [image] "Sir, it's almost impossible to report everyone who's on the take," one of the investigators explains it to his chief. "They just think it's part of their pay. They look at bribes like a legitimate bonus." The chief is Inspector Espinoza. And he receives this bit of disturbing information from one of his team investigating the recent murder of three Rio police officers and their mistresses. A Window in Copacabana is the fourth in a series featuring Espinoza, a bookish loner, age forty-two, a tall, lean man with an analytic mind and romantic heart, who, like Luis Alfredo Garcia-Roza, has spent his entire life in the city of Rio de Janeiro. I'm making my way through all of the Brazilian author's novels, each a gripping page-turner, and the most important thing I can say about Window is it takes the Bolo de Milho (a traditional Brazilian cake). Wow! To call this book a page-turner is understatement. I literally couldn't stop reading - the story is that enthralling. With the exception of Welber, Espinosa's young assistant, everyone both in and out of the Rio police force is a suspect. At one point, Espinosa even has Welber follow him up and down the streets of Rio to see if the youthful, perceptive detective can spot anyone else on his tail. Ah, Rio. One of the great delights in reading Garcia-Roza is the way the samba beat and exuberance of Rio de Janeiro exude their vital presence on every page. “The station was five blocks down the Avenida Atlântica and two to the right, up Hilário de Gouveia. Whenever possible, Espinosa preferred to take the Avenida Atlântica. The soft breeze kept the sea calm, with small waves, and seagulls flew in groups toward the Cagarras Islands.” I've come to love the way Garcia-Roza includes interesting, fully developed characters that seem to burst out on the page. One sexy, vivacious lady deserves a special call-out: Serena, the wife of a high-ranking government official, is pulled into the unfolding drama when, standing at the window of her apartment on the tenth floor, an apartment on the corner of Avenida Atlântica, she notices a commotion in the apartment across the street, less than ten yards away. A woman is gesticulating and pacing across the room. The woman is talking to someone, but Serina can't make out what the woman might be saying. Suddenly, she sees a purse fly out the window. She looks down on the street in an attempt to locate the purse. “She was still trying to discern the purse when a bigger object flew through her visual field, falling to the sidewalk with an impact and a noise that were unmistakably even to someone who had never seen anybody leap off a high building. Serena, horrified, stared at the woman's body on the sidewalk, arms and legs in positions that reminded her of a broken doll.” Serina becomes obsessed with what she has witnessed. And not long thereafter, Serina becomes obsessed – with Espinosa. [image] The inclusion of Serina underscores a distinctive feature of Garcia-Roza fiction: the presence of the erotic and the sensual. As to how it will all play out in A Window in Copacabana is for each reader to discover. If I was still using the star system, this sizzling thriller deserves ten stars. [image] Brazilian author Luiz Alfredo Garcia-Roza, 1936-2020 ...more |
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| 0312421184
| 3.67
| 899
| Dec 09, 1996
| Jul 01, 2003
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[image] I'm thrilled to have discovered a Brazilian novelist so good that I plan to read and review all seven of his works translated into English over [image] I'm thrilled to have discovered a Brazilian novelist so good that I plan to read and review all seven of his works translated into English over the next several weeks. His name is Luiz Alfredo Garcia-Roza (1936-2020). I found The Silence of the Rain, his first novel, an absorbing page-turner as well as outstanding literature on the level of Rubem Fonseca, Clarice Lispector, and Jorge Amado. Take a gander at my highlight reel focusing on a number of captivating features and colorful characters. Opening Scene - On the first pages, we witness Ricardo Carvalho, age forty-two, an executive director of Planalto Minerações, as he finishes a cigarette while sitting in his car in a parking garage. He then rolls up the windows, opens his briefcase, takes out a gun, presses the barrel to his head, and pulls the trigger. Suicide. Thus, we as readers know something the police do not. This disparity of knowledge regarding Carvalho's death (someone removed the gun and briefcase, therefore the police assume it was murder) creates a most intriguing dynamic throughout the novel. Inspector Espinosa - Our main character is a tall, lean, seasoned cop who tends to go with his intuition and instincts. Espinosa, a loner at heart, is no ordinary police officer – he's a literary man attuned to beauty. He would rather hunt down a translation of Herman Melville, Charles Dickens or Joseph Conrad at a used bookstore than hunt down a murderer. Also worth noting, Espinosa is divorced but doesn't dwell on his distant past; he much prefers to fantasize about developing a loving relationship with a beautiful woman. Ah, a romantic. Unique Structure - The novel is divided into four parts. Part 1 is written in objective third person, allowing the author to establish and develop the unfolding drama on a broad canvas, moving from character to character, setting the tone and atmosphere. Parts 2 and 3 shift to first person, where, similar to Raymond Chandler's Philip Marlowe, we follow Espinosa as the inspector thinks and moves through the various happenings. Part 4 shifts back to objective third person as the frequently violent drama reaches its conclusion. Wow. Thank you, Luiz Alfredo Garcia-Roza. As we turn the pages, we're drawn deeper and deeper into the author's riveting tale. Bea - Ricardo Carvalho's wife wasn't exactly close to her womanizing husband. These past years, Bia's energies have been much more focused on her creativity and art along with her highly successful art gallery. Thirty-four-year-old Bia isn't only a refined, educated, and cultured lady, she's a real looker who moves with the grace of a dancer. "Bia's beauty wasn't – not all of it – immediately obvious: its new and unrevealed facets were constantly coming to light." When Espinosa comes around to break the tragic news of her husband's death to Bia, do you think our inspector is attracted to this gifted, upper-class lady? Oh, yes, there's no doubt about it. [image] Max - “He'd lost his job more than a month earlier and hadn't managed to find another one. Even though he'd graduated from high school, he didn't have any real skills. He'd committed his first robbery out of desperation, but it was so easy – and so lucrative – that he didn't see any reason to go out and look for a job. So that's what he'd been doing for the last year.” Not only does Luiz Alfredo Garcia-Roza develop completely rounded, interesting characters, but, as with Max, the Brazilian author also folds in many sociological insights regarding what it is like to be poor in Rio. Alba – Espinosa's investigations lead him to a gym where a young lady by the name of Alba spends her days working out (she's a part owner of the gym). After interviewing Alba, the romantic cop has much to reflect upon. “While he was driving, he compared the two women. Bia's looks were more aristocratic and her sensuality expressed in small details; Alba's were more wild and her sensuality, like the rest of her, explosive. Culturally, Bia's superiority was unchallenged, but emotionally, Alba seemed richer. Bia was surely more interesting; Alba, in spite of her extreme personality, was more straightforward yet still had a relaxing presence.” Espinosa's search for love adds a provocative tang to Garcia-Rosa's mystery novel. [image] Welber - “When Espinosa arrived, Welber was sauntering down the avenue of trees toward the art school. He looked like a vacationing student: polo shirt, sweater around his shoulders, jeans, sneakers. The look was only thrown off by his untucked shirt, which concealed the gun in his belt. Since the benches in the park were wet from the rain, they sat in the car.” Espinosa had always hesitated to work with or confide in any of the cops at his station. He was more inclined to team up with a young cop, a fresh addition to the force, someone who wasn't yet corrupted. Welber qualified – and this youngster had abundant energy along with being unusually perceptive. Espinosa's dealings with Welber count as a high point in the detective yarn. Rio – From the office buildings, apartments, restaurants, and coffee shops to the beaches, parks, and streets, we can feel the vibrant pulse of Rio de Janeiro as we turn the pages. What a treat. [image] Kicker - Luis Alfredo Garcia-Roza proves himself a master in constructing a good mystery – narrative momentum, foreshadowing, red herrings, and, of course, a satisfying ending. And since the author spent a career as a university professor in a philosophy department, there's an ample helping of ideas radiating out from the brutally existential. An extraordinary novel not to be missed. Special thanks to Benjamin Moser for his excellent translation. [image] Brazilian author Luiz Alfredo Garcia-Roza, 1936-2020 ...more |
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| 0300181671
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| 3.78
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| Oct 1937
| Apr 24, 2012
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[image] After reading Ferdydurke, it becomes abundantly clear that Witold Gombrowicz possessed what Hemingway referred to as a first-rate shit detector [image] After reading Ferdydurke, it becomes abundantly clear that Witold Gombrowicz possessed what Hemingway referred to as a first-rate shit detector. Not doubt this was a prime reason the Polish author, in 1939, at the age of thirty-five, decided at the last moment to try his luck in Argentine rather than return on a voyage to Europe, knowing the Nazis just did launch a massive attack on his native country of Poland. Ferdydurke published in 1937, long before Gombrowitcz boarded the cruise ship that would take him to Argentina, a country where he would remain until his return to Europe in the early 1960s. The Polish author's life and other writings, including his three-volume Diary spanning the years 1953-1969, are so worth any reader's time to explore. However, since I'm writing a book review not an extended essay, I will restrict myself to Ferdydurke, considered one of the great 20th century novels by none other than Milan Kundera. The story follows a thirty-year-old writer by the name of Joey who is lead off to a school for boys, then taken to live in a home of an engineer and his wife and schoolgirl daughter, until finally, Joey and his school chum run away to the Polish farmlands. Witold Gombrowicz twice inserts a philosophic preface and one of his previously published short-stories to demarcate Joey's three-part madcap adventure. What makes Ferdydurke such a highly regarded European literary classic, right up there with Robert Musil's The Man Without Qualities and Hermann Broch's The Sleepwalkers? To highlight several of the novel's key aspects, I'll cycle back and link my comments with a number of direct quotes, starting with a few from the first chapter. “the thirty-year-old man I am today was aping and ridiculing the callow juvenile I once was, while he in turn was aping me and, by the same token, each of us was aping himself.” Right in the opening pages, we're given a full dose of Joey's views on his own identity, the ongoing battle of his adult self against his younger, juvenile self. This conflict sets the tone for much of the novel's humor and satire. Joey muses: “Yet it just didn't seem appropriate to dismiss, easily and glibly, the sniveling brat within me.” Curiously, Joey's reflections bring to mind Julio Cortázar, where the Argentine author stated, “I will always be a child in many ways, but one of those children who from the beginning carries within him an adult, so when the little monster becomes an adult he carries in turn a child inside and, nel mezzo del camino, yields to the seldom peaceful coexistence of at least two outlooks onto the world.” Thus, in their main character's refusal to become fully and wholly adult (Cortázar gives this quality to Horacio in his 1963 Hopscotch), along with both authors' refusal to submit to established, traditional forms, Cortázar's innovative novel shares much common ground with Ferdydurke. “man is profoundly dependent on the reflection of himself in another man's soul, be it even the soul of the idiot.” Joey, and indirectly, Witold Gombrowicz, have a profound existential awareness of the influence other people exert on the way we see and define ourselves. Additionally, along with Joey, we're prompted to ask, is there a unique core that is our Self with a capital S? What if the universe is at base meaningless and this lack of meaning nullifies any claim to a fixed center, that is, a true, authentic Self? “It is conceivable that my book, too subtle for dullards, was at the same time not sufficiently lofty or puffed up for the rabble who respond solely to the outer trappings of what is important.” Joey, the published writer, can be seen as a stand-in for Witold Gombrowicz, who received less than positive reviews for his short story collection entitled Bakakaj. Similarly, when Joey observes, "there is nothing that the mature hate more, there is nothing that disgusts them more, than immaturity," it echoes the sentiments of young Witold who detested the posturing of the adult world he encountered in his home country of Poland, especially among the upper classes (he himself was the son of a lawyer), a common thread running throughout Ferdydurke. “I became small, my leg became a little leg, my hand a little hand, my persona a little persona, my being a little being.” When a Professor Pimko appears in Joey's bedroom and takes the thirty-year-old off to a school to join the sixth graders (echoes of Josef K taken off in Kafka's The Trial), we're treated to the comic combined with the philosophic. And, why doesn't Joey fight back? As he explains, "This was ridiculous! Too ridiculous to be real!" Ah, another author comes to mind, someone writing under the jackboot of Stalinism, a Russian author only interested in nonsense - Daniil Kharms. “but how was I supposed to regain my bearing when a couple of steps away, in the cool and bracing air, naivete and innocence were on the rise. The pupa has rolled over the lads and the guys.” So Joey muses once he's in school among his schoolmates where the terms “pupa” and “mug” assume central importance. Translator Danuta Borchardt provides the cultural and linguistic context for these two supercharged words in her Translator's Note. “And finally, do we create form or does form create us? We think we are the ones who construct it, but that's an illusion, because we are, in equal measure, constructed by the construction.” The above quote is taken from the first preface, adding yet again another conceptual layer on top of what is already a rich philosophic work of fiction. “It's a modern household,” he remarked, “modern and naturalistic, favoring the trends, and foreign to my ideology.”... “The schoolgirl,” he said, “she's modern too.” Thus are the words of Pimko as he brings Joey to the home where he'll be staying. The idea of modernism is yet another pivotal theme addressed in Ferdydurke. The Poland of the 1930s, saturated by elements such as automobiles, electricity, radios, movie theaters, jazz records, American magazines, and American fashions was a world away from the Poland of their parents' youth. The Photo on the cover of the French edition of the novel I included above speaks volumes. Now, that's a modern schoolgirl! The perfect lure for the pupa and mug of little Joey. What a novel. Much more awaits a reader of Gombrowicz's classic. And this Yale University Press edition includes a splendid incisive essay by Susan Sontag. Not to be missed. [image] [image] [image] [image] [image] Witold Gombrowicz, 1904-1969 ...more |
Notes are private!
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| 1984823795
| 9781984823793
| 1984823795
| 3.84
| 13,175
| Aug 13, 2019
| Aug 20, 2019
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it was amazing
| [image] The Warehouse presents a nightmarish future world made all the more ghastly and sinister since its future isn't too far distant and much of the [image] The Warehouse presents a nightmarish future world made all the more ghastly and sinister since its future isn't too far distant and much of the nightmare is already in the making. We're in 2040 or thereabouts, and it's global warming with a vengeance: cities like Dubai and Cairo have become uninhabitable, their citizens turned refugees. Rising water levels have destroyed Venice, and Miami is nearly flooded off the map. Worldwide oppressive heat—(we can infer much of the globe registers temperatures over 115 degrees)—means, unless absolutely necessary, venturing outside has become virtually unthinkable. The Warehouse features two main characters, rotating back and forth from their respective points of view: Paxton, a former prison guard in New York for fifteen year who has spent his off hours developing his own business – he invented a gizmo that makes the perfect hard-boiled egg, and Zinnia, an expert in all phases of combat with a killer instinct who employs her skills as a seasoned warrior in corporate espionage. At the opening of the novel, along with many others, Paxton and Zinnia take a bus rumbling across the desolate, scorching American hinterland to seek employment in the world of a MotherCloud, a colossal warehouse for Cloud, the largest company in the US. The MotherCloud warehouse is surrounded by tech facilities, dormitories, shopping/entertainment malls, schools, and a hospital, all kept cool by green energy. Paxton introduces himself to attractive Zinnia and wonders if he'll have an opportunity to meet her again once in MotherCloud. Turns out, the pair are among the lucky ones given a job and not sent home (I'm being ironic here; please see below). Paxton will join the ranks of security guards (blue shirts) and Zinnia has been assigned as a warehouse picker (red shirts), something of a surprise since, with her strong background with computers, she thought she'd be used as a tech person (brown shirts). Actually, The Warehouse features a third main character: Gibson Wells, the founder and CEO of Cloud. Although Wells is worth $304.9 billion (the third richest man in the world), he's on the cusp of losing it all since he has pancreatic cancer and will die in less than a year. We get Wells' reflections on his life, Cloud, and overall philosophy in the form of ongoing entries on his blog. Back on Paxton and Zinnia. The pair do indeed meet once inside MotherCloud. Their day-to-day workaday grind and developing relationship drive much of the novel's drama, especially Zinnia's secret plans to extract the needed information for her mysterious employer, probably a prime competitor to Cloud, information regarding Cloud's questionable green energy source, granting the mega company millions of dollars in tax exemptions. The Warehouse is a thriller. You'll eagerly keep turning those pages to find out what happens to Paxton and Zinnia. However, since the novel is also a cautionary tale of a possible near-future dystopia, here's a list of a number of ways Cloud is depicted as a dehumanizing horror show. The Ultimate Strong-Arm - Cloud owns an entire range of industries well beyond their warehouse operation, including everything from farms to media to microchips. As a result, they employ a whopping 30 million employees. Wells is very proud that he convinced the government to stop interfering in important ways with Cloud. This resulted in the countrywide unemployment rate dropping from 28% to 3%. Quite impressive, for sure, Mr. Wells, but there's a definite trade-off: without government regulations, Cloud can treat employees however they want, no matter how abusive. Slam! - When Paxton gets off the bus and enters the Cloud facility, he can see an older man at the end of the line barred from entrance. A Cloud employee tells the old man he's gotta want to work at Cloud so much he'd never be the last in line. Do you detect a tincture of brutality? Total Control, One - Each employee is assigned a tiny dormitory room on the Cloud campus. Wells is very proud of this arrangement, which has drastically reduced all the carbon dioxide pollution generated by employees driving their cars back and forth to work. Total Control, Two - Each employee must wear a company-issued computerized wristband at all times upon leaving their dormitory room. Thus, Cloud can track every single employee 24/7. The wristband displays the wearer's star rating (you dare not drop below three stars). Additionally, a bar constantly transitions from green to yellow. If it turns yellow, you must work faster to return it to green. If your rating drops from yellow to red more than once – you're fired. Work, Work, Work - The 40 hour work week is a past luxury. According to Wells, you gotta have ambition, which translates into working 60 or 70 hours every week. Overtime pay? Don't even ask. And if you complain, you're always free to leave. Safety Last - Warehouse pickers can use safety clips when they climb up to the upper shelves, but since the clips take time to snap on and off, employees hardly ever use them. After all, they could lose valuable seconds and drop further down on their yellow bar. One lady tells Zinnia she's in a wheelchair since she took a nasty fall as a picker. But, she says, Cloud took good care of her; she now works at a computer as part of tech support. Hospital - Zinnia dislocates her shoulder and requires a hospital visit. A man promptly relocates her shoulder and advises against the hospital unless she wishes to risk her star rating. He emphasizes that the hospital is reserved for severe injuries. If one is capable of walking or simply unwell, it's preferable to opt for a painkiller and continue with work. Drones - Wells undertook a significant business risk by investing in cutting-edge drone technology. His gamble proved successful: nowadays, Cloud reigns supreme. Cloud is the company capable of offering customers throughout the entire US with lightning-fast service. Any employee showing even a hint of trouble is promptly assigned to the warehouse roof, where they must endure 10-12 hour shifts amidst scorching heat. Their responsibility? Loading cargo onto thousands of drones. Big Fish Eats Little Fish – Paxton is resentful since Cloud drove him out of his hard-boiled-egg business back when he was CEO of his own company. Cloud destroyed many small business in its quest for complete domination. As Wells continually drives home, when it comes to business, “the market decides” and he wasn't proud he had to break a few eggs to make an omelet, but, dang, it's the end result that counts. And, with Cloud, so claims Wells, the world is a better place. Cloud Media – With all their TV stations and other mass media, Cloud is Fox taken to the extreme. There's a TV in every dormitory room with every station being a Cloud station. The brainwashing is complete. White Managers - Zinnia finds herself confronted with Rick's persistent attempts at sexual abuse in the dormitory. She soon realizes that Rick's status as a manager (indicated by his white shirt) enables him to act with impunity, as exploiting women seems to be an unspoken privilege associated with attaining a higher position and embodying the ideal of a "Cloud man." A Latino supervisor informs Zinnia that managerial roles are exclusively reserved for white men. Racist and sexist, you might ask? Absolutely! However, Cloud has positioned itself far beyond the reach of state laws or government regulations. Getting To Know You - Cloud does its best to prevent employees from forming into groups or developing meaningful relationships. To maintain complete control over every phase of its employees' lives, Cloud discourages interpersonal connections or in-depth conversations that are outside the scope of one's job. Recall I mentioned that Cloud is a dehumanizing horror show back there. This last bullet seals the deal for the truth of this statement. Rob Hart has written a gem, a compelling captivating novel for our time. Highly recommended. [image] American author Rob Hart Rob has dedicated his novel to Maria Fernandes. Rob writes "Maria Fernandes worked part time at three separate Dunkin' Donuts located in New Jersey, and in 2014, while sleeping in her car between shifts, accidentally suffocated on gas fumes. She was struggling to pay $550 a month on her basement apartment. That same year, according to the Boston Globe, Dunkin' Brands then CEO, Nigel Travis, earned $10.2 million. More than anyone or anything else, Maria's story beats at the heart of this book." ...more |
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| 1846556937
| 9781846556937
| 1846556937
| 3.18
| 373
| 2011
| Jun 01, 2013
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it was amazing
| [image] Plan D, written by Simon Urban, is a thriller set in an alternate history where the Berlin Wall never came down and West Germany and East Germa [image] Plan D, written by Simon Urban, is a thriller set in an alternate history where the Berlin Wall never came down and West Germany and East Germany remain as separate countries. Buckle up and brace yourself for suspense, intrigue, and an author whose imagination is on fire. Taking place in and around East Berlin in October 2011, Plan D is too scorching hot for me to do anything but shoot off a batch of bullets: VICTIM A silver-haired old man dangles from a noose in a forest next to a critically important gas pipeline, his shoelaces tied together and the noose has a hangman's knot with eight turns, indicating that he's considered a traitor by the Stasi, the East German Secret State Security Service. However, given the significant political and economic implications of the pipeline running through East Germany, connecting the West with Russian energy, could an interested party have simply staged the scene to make it appear as though the Stasi were the murderers? With so much at stake, including East Germany's economic future, one thing is clear: any clear-cut answer is highly unlikely. MARTIN WEGENER Meet the novel's main character, Captain Wegner, a detective with over thirty years of experience in the East German police force. Plan D is written in close third-person, allowing readers to look over Captain Wegener's shoulder as we follow the savvy East German gumshoe from the first page to the last. Wegener's observations on the things and people he encounters in East Germany are always crisp and sharp, as when the detective spots the doctor sent to examine the dead oldster hanging several feet above the ground. “The man consists almost entirely of straight edges, a square skull with a square chin. Below that, square shoulders. Legs like steel struts underneath his trousers, presumably. Muscled girders for marching extra snappily.” It's Captain Wegener who is assigned to the case of this murder. And the power players doing the assigning toss in a surprise: to ensure that East German State Security will be portrayed in the best possible light as justice is served, the good Captain will be working with police officers from West Germany. FRÜCHTL Captain Wegener frequently conducts mental conversations with Früchtl, his friend and mentor, who is now either dead or, more likely, having been locked away these past few years in a Stasi secret prison. Here's a snip of Früchtl wisdom Wegener hears (I italicize since the novel always italicizes Früchtl's words): Of course I'd warn you to be mistrustful. And of course they've got you fucked with this job, Martin. Who wants to be drawn into a special investigation where you get a shit-load of trouble if you find anything out and a shit-load of trouble if you don't find anything out? But remember, getting fucked can be a good thing, even if it's your own state that's using you against your will, because everything that happens in your life is just as much disadvantage as advantage; even when you get raped it's all about trying to enjoy it. KAROLINA ENDERS Although divorced for nearly two years, Martin Wegener still yearns for Karolina, a stunning thirty-five-year-old redhead who currently holds a high-level government position revolving around the country's energy sources. Wegener recognizes she isn't the same person he knew a year ago. “Perhaps it was the ministry people who'd changed her. Or her career progress. Perhaps you had to coordinate your fingernails and handbag with your hair, as a section head. Perhaps you got promoted if you wore socialist colours particularly often. Karolina was tougher, cooler, more perfect than she used to be. Karolina was more successful. Karolina was even more beautiful. Karolina was further away than ever. And yet just as close as ever.” Do you sense sweet Karolina might play a major part in the unfolding of the mystery Wegener is charged to solve? Nothing like the passion a man can have for a beautiful women to energize and deepen an already supercharged story. RICHARD BRENDEL The top West German police officer sent to work with Wegener proves quite the man, arriving in his large, sleek Mercedes. Here's Martin Wegener on first meeting this tall, slim gent with gray hair who is a couple of years older than he is. “Brendel's eau de toilettte got to him before the man himself did. A heavy, saccharine scent slightly reminiscent of sweet-shops. A touch of liquorice. A hint of rose. A bit of sherbet. Wegener noticed simultaneously that he liked the smell and that he found it annoying that he liked it. Then their hands gripped one another, a normal, firm handshake, a brief glance into the blue, blue eyes. Brendel's mouth smiled a subtle smile. Or his mouth was shaped in such a way that it looked subtly smiling from close up. You had to look up to the mouth's owner. He was a least one mere eighty-five, if not one ninety. His features were a good-looking fortress that might be concealing anything at all. Capitalism didn't just have more legroom – it smelled better too.” I included this extended quote to underscore Martin Wegener's keen observation skills, which always includes a tincture of cynicism. And, I can assure you, the Wegener-Brendel detective team proves a highlight in Simon Urban's fast-paced thriller. EAST GERMANY In many ways, East Berlin and East Germany are major characters in the novel, especially when seen in comparison with West Berlin and West Germany. Simon Urban's alternate history adds a special tang when it comes to culture and society. Turning the pages, I felt as if I was indeed living in East Berlin, trudging through its rundown streets, looking up at all the soot-darkened tenement buildings, riding in cramped, crappy cars, eating tasteless imitations of bread and meat, sitting in on many nightmarish bureaucratic meetings where men and women have flattened themselves down into two spiritless dimensions. And how do the East Germans see the West and the West's snazzy products? One short scene speaks volumes. Wegener and Brendel exist a Stasi building and return to Brendel's car. “When they stepped out into the courtyard, about twenty men in Stassi-coloured suits were taking turns to pose by the Mercedes bonnet, photographing each other with their Minsk cameras.” Where's your socialist ideals now, Comrades?! What is the Plan D of Plan D? A definite answer is given but you'll have to read Simon Urban's thriller to find out. A special nod to Katy Derbyshire for her translating into clear, accessible English. Fans of novels written by authors like John le Carré and Henning Mankell will be in for a special treat with Plan D. [image] German author Simon Urban, born 1975 ...more |
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| 1681378191
| 9781681378190
| B0C5V9KT5V
| 3.76
| 1,080
| 1999
| Feb 27, 2024
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it was amazing
| [image] Blue Lard by Vladimir Sorokin. According to Max Lawton, a moshujia of translation, this novel isn't here to be read so much as borne witness to [image] Blue Lard by Vladimir Sorokin. According to Max Lawton, a moshujia of translation, this novel isn't here to be read so much as borne witness to. How should one bear witness? Max advises us to keep in mind and heart the novel's epigraph from Fritz - "There are more idols than realities in the world: that is my "evil eye" upon this world: that is also my "evil ear." Blue Lard is not easy to review. I can't claim that I completely understood everything that was going on. Hardly. Indeed, as Max tells us, Vladimir Sorokin himself "seemed to venerate even his own incomprehension of Blue Lard and expressed that the writer must not be exempt from an aesthetic of nontransparency." An aesthetic of nontransparency. It appears that Sorokin takes the words of esteemed Russian literary critic Viktor Shklovsky (1893-1984) to heart: "Art makes the familiar strange so that it can be freshly perceived. To do this, it presents its material in unexpected, even outlandish ways: the shock of the new." Comrades, rest assured that with Blue Lard, the reader is in for a series of shocks across the novel's 345 pages. It's as if the author intends to jolt us out of what Shklovsky termed "automatic and habitual perception." In simpler terms, with a fanfare of Russian trumpets, it's time to awaken from our routinized stupor and savor the scent of the Blue Lard roses. There's no introduction in this New York Review Books edition; instead, Vladimir Sorokin plunges the reader straight into his tale. And what a plunge it is! We find ourselves in 2068, where a number of characters speak in NovoRuss, a language mixing codes, pop phrases, Russian, and Chinese. Take a gander at this snatch: Without references to L-harmony, Kir is a simple shgua who stuck his skinny zuan kong tchi into fashionable HERO-KUNST. Daisy is a laobaixing who went straight from Pskov to the ART-mei chun in Petersburg. She's not even able to support an elementary tanhua and, like Rebecca from your favorite show, is only truly comfortable when repeating the last words of her collocutor's sentences, disguising her idiocy with a hebephrenic “ha!” Got that? Two pieces of good news: 1) A glossary containing Chinese words, phrases, along with other futurist terms and expressions, is provided at the back of the book; 2) NovoRuss is spoken only in the first section of the novel; beyond page 116, Blue Lard shifts gears and clicks into a rip-roaring Sorokin-style adventure yarn. You'll eagerly keep turning those pages that seem to fly by. The story is initially set in an Eastern Siberian lab, where geneticists create clones of great Russian authors capable of replicating the literary works of their human counterparts. The BL-3 project yields seven clones: Tolstoy, Chekhov, Nabokov, Pasternak, Dostoevsky, Akhmatova, and Platonov. How does this work? We're given a hefty sample from all seven authors, which turns out to be a series of side-splitters. For example, let's consider Platonov. As one of the scientists writes in a letter to a friend, “The most exotic individuals produced the most M-predictable texts. I proved to be correct at 67%. Outwardly, Platonov-3 hasn't changed in any way; as he was a coffee table, so has he remained.” Platonov-3's text runs twelve pages entitled The Injunction, which will especially resonate with readers familiar with Chevengur. Instead of locomotives, there are lumpomotives that run on lumps of human body parts. There's mention of Rosa Luxemburg, an object of veneration for a wandering knight in Platonov's classic. There are hordes of men and women at the ready to give everything to the cause of the proletarian. For example: In Ostahkov, four legless donors and a pregnant broad holding a piece of rail asked to ride with them until Konepad. “You're gonna have to jump off yourselves! We don't have enough steam for idling! Bubnov warned them. “We will jump, Comrade, of course!” the donors rejoiced in the warmth and motion. “We've nothing left to break!” The Injunction picks up serious absurdist/black humor steam with every page right up until the rousing preposterous conclusion. What a hootnik. The clones provide an additional vital function – as they write, they accumulate blue lard on their back and the inside of their thighs. The blue lard is scrapped off and contains qualities far beyond the normal laws of physics and chemistry. The leaders of this laboratory plan to use the blue lard for their moon project but there are those who have other plans. Suddenly, there's an attack on the Eastern Siberian lab and a series of scenes so crazy and weird that they qualify as hypercrazy and hyperweird. When all the dust, ice, and blue lard settles, we're back in Moscow in 1954. Not long thereafter, it's Stalin time. I suspect most readers know Blue Lard prompted a criminal investigation back in Russia, and protesters threw Sorokin's books into a huge sculpture of a toilet placed in front of the Bolshoi Theater. The reason: alternative history with a vengeance. There's a graphic scene where Khrushchev sticks his cock in Stalin's anus. Investigators and protesters no doubt also objected to those pages describing cannibalism, sadism, torture, murder, and the rape of a young girl (Hitler rapes Stalin's daughter). All this to say, much of Blue Lard can be tough going for readers who only want the world of Jane Austen. Speaking of the Bolshoi Theater, one of my favorite bits has the famous performance space filled with the Moscow sewage system. “Those who are superficially familiar with fecal culture suppose the contents of a sewer system to be a thick, impenetrable mass of excrement. This is not even remotely the case. Excrement makes up only twenty percent of its contents. The rest is liquid. Though this liquid is murky, it is still possible to survey the entire hall with strong enough lighting – from the floor spread with carpets to the ceiling with its famous chandelier.” But no worries as each audience member is adequately fitted out with the proper scuba gear. And, by the way, in this vast watery theater-turned-sewer, wind instruments sound much more extravagant than the strings. I concur with Max Lawton when he cites the ideal mode of reading Blue Lard is one of wonder, contemplation, and amusement. But, above all, read it...soon. [image] Vladimir Sorokin, born 1955. Photo taken around 1999, the year Blue Lard was originally published in Russian. ...more |
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[image] Surprise! He's back...again! The Four Deaths and One Resurrection of Fyodor Mikhailovich is Zoran Živković's twenty-fourth novel containing the [image] Surprise! He's back...again! The Four Deaths and One Resurrection of Fyodor Mikhailovich is Zoran Živković's twenty-fourth novel containing the Serbian author's signature Middle-European fantastica in the tradition of Mikhail Bulgakov's The Head of a Dog and Franz Kafka's Metamorphosis, yet written with the light touch and charm of Roald Dahl's James and the Giant Peach. Why the surprise? Here's the skinny: In 2022, after a six-year hiatus since his last novel, Zoran Živković wrote The White Room where, in the closing pages, his muse tells Zoran (yes, the author has written himself into his own novel) that she is closing down the white room, that is, the part of his mind that served as artistic inspiration for his numerous works of fiction. Consequently, The Write Room was assumed to be his final piece. However, here we are in 2024, and the white room has reopened. Ah, the muse can be fickle. Some years ago, when I wrote a review of Compartments, my very first of the author's novels, I enthusiastically proclaimed that Zoran Živković is a great storyteller — an absolute joy to read, creating tales that are charming, captivating, beguiling, dazzling, mesmerizing, and full of surprises at every turn. Having subsequently written a comprehensive review for each of the other twenty-two Zoran Živković novels, I can assure you I have not changed my opinion in the least; if anything, my appreciation for his fiction has soared. Likewise, with The Four Deaths and One Resurrection of Fyodor Mikhailovich, a short novel containing all of Zoran's storytelling magic along with addressing the ultimate questions we face as humans. And why Dostoyevsky? The reason is simple. For Zoran, Fyodor Dostoyevsky is the master of the ultimate question — things like: Where did we come from? Why are we here? Where are we going? Turning to the story itself, in the first chapter, The Park, we join none other than Fyodor Mikhailovich Dostoyevsky as he trudges through a blizzard to meet a friend when he unexpectedly finds himself at the edge of a park. In an attempt to save time, Fyodor decides to cross through the park. He takes a dozen steps and begins to see a point of light. He walks toward the light and, upon reaching it, discovers it's a gaslight atop a lamp post, forming a small circle of light on the snow-covered ground. The moment Fyodor steps into the circle, a short, bundled-up older man with tiny eyes behind small, round, wire-framed glasses appears, huffing and puffing. This older gent informs Fyodor that it's good he found him. He then asks Fyodor if he's seen him. Fyodor, in turn, asks, 'Who?' The gent orders Fyodor not to leave and announces there's a really big disturbance happening, and time is of the essence. He races off but not before beseeching Fyodor that if he shows up, he must detain him - and Fyodor will recognize him. Fyodor is understandably confused, completely baffled. He reasons any older man who runs around chasing someone in a blizzard must be with the secret police. But he soon learns things are not nearly as rational and straightforward as one would suppose. First off, he hears a voice he recognizes as his own. Words are exchanged. The older gent reappears but quickly runs off, still on his manhunt. Then, the truly impossible: Fyodor sees his perfect double emerge into the lighted area. Here's a snatch of their conversation at the point where a shocked Fyodor asks: “Who are you?" Fyodor Mikhailovich, a writer, just like you.” “But... but... that is not possible.” “That's exactly what I said back on the town square. And yet it is.” “Wait, this is just like my novelette - The Double. But The Double is fantastika. It can't be real. Am I perhaps just dreaming all this?” “If you were dreaming, you would wake up after this question. That's the way it always is. Something else is happening. Reality is more fantastic than you can ever possibly imagine.” That last sentence bears repeating: Reality is more fantastic than you can ever possibly imagine. Fyodor quickly discovers just how fantastic when his double informs him that he, Fyodor, is not his only double, but that he has countless doubles from countless worlds. And, if this shocking revelation isn't enough for poor Fyodor, when the older gent returns to join the two Fyodors, he isn't alone. He's brought along a third Fyodor! What happens in the concluding pages of The Park following this extraordinary meeting is for each reader to discover. One additional observation: Reflecting on that older gent with his wire-framed glasses might suggest that, once again, Zoran Živković wrote himself into his own novel. As for the next three parts of Zoran's novel - The Restaurant Car, The Psychiatrist's Office, and The Turkish Bath - I dare not disclose too much. However, I can say that readers will be charmed and enchanted by actual characters from the great Russian novelist's masterpieces making a flesh-and-blood appearance, sophisticated computer simulations, and the presence of AI, all playing vital roles in the unfolding. The Four Deaths and One Resurrection of Fyodor Mikhailovich is a sheer joy. I highly recommend to both seasoned fans and those new to the Serbian author. [image] Serbian author Zoran Živković, born 1948 ...more |
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[image] Scenes from the Life of a Faun - Arno Schmidt's 1953 novella set in Germany during a time when Nazi goons and more Nazi goons flooded the count [image] Scenes from the Life of a Faun - Arno Schmidt's 1953 novella set in Germany during a time when Nazi goons and more Nazi goons flooded the country. Heinrich Düring, in his early fifties and a veteran of WWI, serves as narrator of the tale. He works as a county clerk in the local government office and is married to a woman who refuses him sex. The novella is, in effect, Herr Düring's musings, presented in the form of sharp, satiric, cynical, yet poetic short paragraphs - all in distinctive Arno Schmidt style: each paragraph starts with italicized words, and the first line of the paragraph is not indented; instead, all subsequent lines are indented. The narrative unfolds at three points in time: February 1939, May to August 1939, and August to September 1944. The above dates take on a supercharged significance when we keep in mind the Nazis invaded Poland on September 1, 1939. And in July 1944, Allied forces raced eastward towards Paris. On one level, Arno Schmidt's fiction is all about the exactitude of language. Thus, I'll zero in on a batch of direct quotes taken from the first section (Feb 1939) and offer a splash of commentary. “SA, SS, military, HY andsoforth : humans are never more trying than when playing soldier. (Surfaces periodically among them about every score of years, something like malaria, of late the pace is quicker). In the end it's always the worst ones who end up on top, to wit : bosses, executives, directors, presidents, generals, ministers, chancellors. A decent person is ashamed of being a boss !” Düring plays the game, assuming the role of a dutiful citizen when in the presence (and under interrogation) of the buffoonish Nazi chiefs. However, on a deeper level, much like Arno Schmidt himself, he spends the Hitler years in his own inner exile. “Oh, they all work nice and hard there !” with a pinched and lordly smile : “The Jews.” Pause. He nudged the index card closer to his big blue eyes; but he just has to let it out : “And if they refuse – they string 'em up.” - ? ! ! ? - : “On a special gallows.” Ahhh! Such ferocious Nazi language blurted out by an oafish office worker hearkens back to Martin Luther's infamous words, “The Jews deserve to be hanged on gallows seven times higher than ordinary thieves.” Throughout the saga, numerous references attest to Arno Schmidt's thorough knowledge of his country's history, particularly its literature. “I am a servant of the heath, a worshiper of leaves, a devotee of wind ! … what I trust most are the beauties of nature. Then books; then roast with sauerkraut. All else changes, legerdemains.” I agree with a number of critics who have noted that Arno Schmidt is a Romantic at heart, with a Romanticism that's more realistic than Realism. I take a special delight when Arno combines art with nature. “To the john, number one; and then to the window : boulders of air with polished edges; across the way, fields and roads done in angular woodcuts by the moonlight, until barely recognizable.” “Just like the “Führers” up top, who are forever thinking up new titles for each other, new ranks and Arabian-Nights' uniforms. The whole nation is in the grip of a mania for medals and badges, enthusiastically weaving away on the legend of its own grandeur ! The sort of thing that truly fits the Germans to a T !” Arno Schmidt held a fierce contempt for anything smelling of herd mentality or group-think. And we as readers cringe along with Heinrich when his only son tells him he wants a Hitler Youth dagger for Christmas. I bet Düring could picture his son yearning to join the boys below, following a youth leader (look at the expression on that kid's face) who would dearly love the opportunity to stick his dagger in the gut of a fellow German who dares not offer allegiance to Hitler. [image] “The daughter (very pretty face – but I mentioned that already? !), with her thighs spread wide and visible a long way up, slowly turned a rig on her little finger, and gazed at me through impenetrable lashes. (Just like in the picture).” The Nazi propaganda machine was extremely effective, especially among the impressionable young, in creating a clear, vivid picture of the ideal Nazi youth. Posters (kitschy art that would turn a German Shepherd's stomach) were plastered up in every available pubic space so nobody would miss the message. [image] “All that exists refers either to the Invisible or the Divine Pleroma, including what has occurred both within and without the Pleroma, or to those things belonging to the visible world.” The first section of the novella concludes with a two-page detailed elaboration of Gnostic theology, complete with references to things like the 30 Aeons, Bythos, Sige, and Sophia. A critically important feature of Gnosticism: our world was not created by a good God but by a flawed monster called the Demiurge. In such a world as ours, is it any wonder cruelty and stupidity go on the rampage? I've only touched on a few of the provocative subjects covered in Scenes from the Life. For the full Arno Schmidt complement, including Heinrich's ogling over a luscious she-wolf by the name of Käthe Evers, you'll have to read for yourself. [image] Arno Schmidt, 1913-1979 ...more |
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[image] Sculpture of a pair of eggheads on a college campus in California The Egghead Republic, Arno Schmidt's 1957 novella, is set in a world fifty yea [image] Sculpture of a pair of eggheads on a college campus in California The Egghead Republic, Arno Schmidt's 1957 novella, is set in a world fifty years into the future (2008), marked by a nuclear world war that has turned much of the planet into a wasteland filled with mutants. Amidst this desolation, a ray of light emerges: the eight major world governments have established the International Republic of Artists and Scientists (IRAS) on a jet-propelled island. Here, the greatest minds in the sciences and the arts can keep the flame of civilization shining. An American journalist, Charles Henry Winer (a super great name – Win-er instead of Lose-r - for this hale and sexually-charged Yank from the land of Roger Ramjets), ventures forth to report on the developments among the eggheads. What he finds isn't the envisioned harmonious pursuit of truth, beauty, and peace, but just the opposite. The novella takes the form of Winer's wacky journal – with funky punctuation, reverse indentation (the first line of a paragraph isn't indented; rather, all the other lines), quizzical footnotes, and loads of oddball wordplay and word combinations, as in 'ohbytheway.' This makes for a fun, enjoyable, and highly engaging read, the perfect starting place for those readers unacquainted with Arno Schmidt. Speaking of fun, Michael Horovitz surely had his share since Winer's report is written in English and translated into the now dead German language (oh, yes, sorry to say, few Germans have survived nuclear devastation). Thus, The Egghead Republic, a Short Novel from the Horse Latitudes is Horovitz's translation of Arno Schmidt's Die Gelehrtenrepublik: Kurzroman aus den Roßbreiten back into English. Prior to boarding a ferryboat that will take him to the Egghead Republic, Winer must cross the Hominid Strip, a fenced-off province in the Sierra Nevada, a desert filled by all varieties of mutant creatures. Here we can see Arno Schmidt will hold a special appeal for fans of New Wave SF writers like Philip K. Dick, Walter M. Miller, Jr, and Brian Aldiss. The nightmare prospect of mutants following a nuclear holocaust was a common theme back in the 1950s. PKD detailed a carnival sideshow of human monstrosities with feathers, scales, tails, wings or without eyes or faces; Miller wrote of a leper-like colony peopled by warped and crawling things. Arno Schmidt adds a light, comic touch, for among his hideous mutants (giant butterflies and spiders with human heads) are centaurs. Winer develops a love interest for one of their female number and describes the centaurs in detail. “No, on their tongues: the females have handlong pinkish tubes” (they are the dreaded suckers!) The males have an equally long blown-up kind of penis (legend has it they oft-times lewdly make for centaurlets' behinds - : what alibis these bucolic belles dream up for themselves:...” At one point, Winer must deal with officials at an administrative checkpoint. “And I had to present my papers immediately: identity card with photo, thumbprint, tooth structure, penis type." What types of penises are on official record in this future world? One can only imagine. Arno Schmidt doesn't miss an opportunity to stick his sharp satiric needle into the fleshy backside of everybody and everything. He can see the colossal problem on Planet Earth: humans! Once aboard the massive Egghead vessel jointly controlled by the US on one side and the USSR on the other, Winer quickly detects a sinister brew of cold war-like intrigue, power plays and manipulation. One of the American journalist's preliminary observations: "I might perhaps be under scrutiny after all, through some tiny peepholes: where on earth can one prevent that these days?" Arno is SO prophetic here, clearly foreseeing 21st century omnipresent surveillance. The experimental German author hits all the notes in the comic register, including the blackest of black humor. Winer is taken to an area in the massive (over 2 miles in diameter) Egghead Republic where there are statues of the famous. “On the left, decoratively shackled, malicious critics, each with an asymmetrical gag in his envious mus: very tasteful!” Ahh! Echoes of the the Nazi's 1937 Degenerate Art exhibit. And when it comes to who will and who will not be permitted membership to the Egghead Republic, we read, “approximately three-quarters of these are, in practice, refused by our admissions committee! It is just too sad: in the mother countries even political parties sometimes vindictively prevent the advancement of geniuses they find irksome.” Ominous, ominous. Arno Schmidt could detect scientists and especially those in literature and the arts would be given a choice: either adhere to the party line or...well, so much for your creative efforts. And another country took a different approach - "Mind you, once a country - "I don't want to mention any names" - had registered all its dissident writers, right down to the below average ones, for its quota of 53 places. With the cunning motive: then they will be (a) removed (which also annoys the populace further: "yes, they are trying to get to safety!"); and (b) after two years they're no longer competent to describe the subtle developments: no longer have 'their finger on the pulse of the nation'..." One can think of the fate of artists, writers, scientists once the Nazis came to power. Likewise, those in countries under the hammer of the USSR. The ultimate fate of the Egghead Republic? Another comic stroke of Arno genius. Read all about it. *Note: The Egghead Republic is included in Collected Novellas translated by John E. Woods under the title Republica Intelligentsia and published by Dalkey Archive Press [image] Arno Schmidt's illustration of the island republic with all those eggheads [image] Arno Schmidt, 1914-1979 ...more |
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[image] Rio de Janeiro, setting for the author's fiction Winning the Game and Other Stories - outstanding collection of seventeen sizzling yarns penned [image] Rio de Janeiro, setting for the author's fiction Winning the Game and Other Stories - outstanding collection of seventeen sizzling yarns penned by one of the giants of Brazilian literature - Rubem Fonseca. There are two stories featuring the great Mandrake, an offbeat, intellectual lawyer who likes playing detective when he's not playing chess with luscious, beautiful women who instantly fall in love with him. There's also a intriguing novella with the provocative title, The Art of Walking in the Streets of Rio de Janeiro. Again, more than a dozen fictional gut-wrenchers. Here's a few words on several of their number - MANDRAKE "I was white and had fianchettoed my bishop. Berta was mounting a strong center pawn position." This is how the tale opens, with Mandrake's brief yet tantalizing observation while lounging in his plush Rio penthouse. The intrigue lies on two fronts: he employs the less common chess vocabulary to depict the diagonal movement of his bishop and informs us that his opponent is Berta — a woman we will quickly discover to be gorgeous, curvaceous (imagine a perfectly sculpted yoga teacher), and, oh, so possessive. Mandrake must swing into action when he learns of a murder connected with one of the city's wealthiest and most influential business and political leaders. And this old man has a alluring, beautiful daughter, a blonde Mandrake meets and it's love at first sight. Oh, Mandrake! You're such a romantic. GUARDIAN ANGEL The main character, a man, is hired to protect a wealthy owner of a vast estate, a woman so frightened she can't be left alone for more than a few minutes. But he's also working for her sister who's out for her blood. A memorable tale with a bundle of twists along with a corpse or two. MARTA One of my favorites in the collection, a tale that starts off with an exchange between a man who refers to himself as an incorrigible romantic and a woman calling herself Louise Brooks since she looks a bit like the famous film star by that name. They meet in his apartment. And here's where the fun begins. Louise spikes the incorrigible romantic's drink as a first step in cleaning him out. However, since Rubem Fonseca spent time as a police officer and city detective as a young man, he isn't about to let Louise work her deviousness as planned. Wow! What an ending. PASSION The narrator, a gent I'll call Afonso, is an unpublished writer who once had the ambition to be one of the great Brazilian novelists. Although he didn't love her, not even close, Afonso married Nelly for her money. And Nelly was ugly - drooping breasts, flaccid ass, large belly. Afonso suggested she submit to plastic surgery. Nelly replied bitingly, "You think I'm some kind of Botoxed social butterfly? I'm a professional, a famous lawyer, respected, who makes a living by working." Ouch! Afonso, the unemployed failed writer feels the sting. But when Afonso meets Michele, the girl of his dreams, one thing becomes clear: Nelly the famous, flaccid ass must be done away with. Afonso consults his friend, a doctor who devises a surefire plan. How will it turn out? Rubem Fonseca must have had a blast inserting a number of dramatic twists. WINNING THE GAME The tale begins: "When I'm not reading some book I get from the public library I watch one of those TV programs that show the life of the rich, their mansions, the cars, the horses, the yachts, the jewels, the paintings, the rare furniture, the silverware, the wine cellar, the servants. It's impressive how well served the rich are." Rubem Fonseca incorporates much social and cultural commentary, including (no surprise) the bitter resentment the poor have for those with gobs of money. [image] Rubem Fonseca, 1925-2020 ...more |
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it was amazing
| [image] Rio de Janeiro - setting for the short stories in this collection Rubem Fonseca (1925-2020) was a literary writer par excellence who happened t [image] Rio de Janeiro - setting for the short stories in this collection Rubem Fonseca (1925-2020) was a literary writer par excellence who happened to write in a way that appealed to millions of readers in his native Brazil. Novels like High Art, Vast Emotions and Imperfect Thoughts, and Bufo & Spallanzani became bestsellers in his home country (I posted reviews of all three – check them out). In The Taker and Other Stories, our dynamic man of letters serves up fifteen scorching tales of urban crime that have been described as chilling, gut-wrenching, ghastly, and disturbing. To share a fuller taste of what a reader will encounter, I will focus on one story that, for me, was particularly memorable. Spoiler Alert: to do this short tale justice, I will analyze it from beginning to end. ANGELS OF THE MARQUEES At Loose Ends - Poor Paiva. Upon retirement, he planned to travel the world with his dear wife. But, alas, Leila died of a sudden illness days before their first trip. What to do? He's totally bored looking out at the ocean from his penthouse balcony, and knows he's not the type of man to start doing things like going to church, joining a club or even staying home to read or watch films or sports. And since he and Leila never had children, there are no grandchildren to visit. The upshot: Is he healthy? Yes. Does he have plenty of money? Yes. Is he happy? No. The Wanderer – Just to get out of the penthouse, Paiva starts wandering aimlessly through the Rio streets. Oh, my. For the first time, he sees all the homeless women and men, especially men, lying on the sidewalks and in the gutters. When he was working, he traveled from home to work in a chauffeur-driven limousine, a world removed from the street. But now he has become aware of the grim reality. “It was as if fate, which had always protected him, were pointing out a new path, inviting him to help those wretches whom destiny had so cruelly abandoned.” Paiva senses what his new life might be. Nighttime Noting - During one of his nocturnal walks, under the marquee of a bank, Paiva spots a man and a woman bending over one of the homeless bodies, as if attempting to revive it. The duo then lifts the unfortunate wretch and carries him to a small ambulance. After the ambulance drives away, Paiva stands there, rooted to the spot. "Witnessing that gesture of charity had encouraged him: something, however modest, was being done; someone cared about those miserable creatures." My bet is Paiva was raised a Christian, and this scene brought back memories of a Sunday school lesson. True Christians - Night after night, Paiva continues his walks, encountering numerous homeless individuals and yearning for the appearance of the "Angels of the Marquees" to lend a helping hand to one or two of these unfortunate souls. Paiva desires nothing more than to contribute to this organization, perhaps in some administrative capacity. Then, one night, there they are — the same pair of altruists, lifting a body off the sidewalk. Paiva approaches and expresses his willingness to assist, asking for the name of their service or agency. They respond, “We're a private organization. We want to keep people from dying abandoned in the street. But we don't like publicity.” Adding a Christian touch, they say, “Your right hand shouldn't know what your left hand is doing.” Before the ambulance pulls away, Paiva requests their phone number and address to pay their headquarters a visit. They reply, “Give us your phone number, and we'll get in touch with you.” True Christian Wannabe - Poor Paiva anxiously waits for the call, but a week passes with no response. He assumes the angels may have lost his number or are simply too occupied with their altruistic work. Paiva finally resorts to searching the streets at night and manages to spot them. Rushing up to the pair, he confesses his desperation to hear from them, mentioning that he almost ran an ad in the paper. The woman in the group admits she lost his number. They write his number down again and promise to give him a call soon. Finding True Happiness - The very next day, Paiva receives a call, and the angels instruct him to meet them under the same bank marquee where they first met. Paiva is thrilled; he nearly runs to the marquee and can barely express his gratitude when he hops in next to the ambulance driver, and they head off. The van reaches its destination, zooms through the open gate, and stops in a courtyard. They get out, and the driver tells Paiva he'll show him their facilities, starting with the infirmary. Paiva walks down a corridor accompanied by two orderlies. When they arrive at the infirmary, Paiva is truly impressed with the cleanliness of the place. Taking it all in, this moment is the very first time Paiva has felt totally happy since his wife, Leila, died." The Twist - At the very instant of Paiva's great feeling of joy, the orderlies immobilize him, tie his hands, and place him on a stretcher. “Surprised and frightened, Paiva could offer no resistance. A needle was stuck into his arm.” Paiva is stripped and taken into the operating room. One of the men dressed as a surgeon asks what organs from this one. The other masked man says the corneas, for sure, and probably the liver, kidneys, and lungs. Rubem Fonseca ends with one of the masked men remarking, “We have to work fast. The rider's waiting to deliver the orders.” Coda - A ghastly tale, for sure, and a tale that speaks to the economic conditions in a city like Rio, a city with a razor sharp division between rich and poor. Paiva comes to recognize the city leaves many men and women destitute and homeless. Too bad he didn't pick up on the signs of what some of the population will resort to in order to avoid being counted among the destitute themselves. [image] Rubem Fonseca, 1925-2020 ...more |
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[image] “In my line of work, we call it the f-word. Not the too familiar obscenity but a close cousin and mercenary variant called fraud. I work in the [image] “In my line of work, we call it the f-word. Not the too familiar obscenity but a close cousin and mercenary variant called fraud. I work in the Special Investigations Unit of Reliable Allied Trust, where I investigate insurance fraud.” These are the novel's opening lines, reflections from narrator/protagonist Carver Hartnett. The novel's setting is Omaha, Nebraska, a small city the city paper calls “the Midlands,” TV stations refer to “the Heartlands,” and one character, soon to be found slumped dead over his home computer, called “the Mid-Heartland.” What will a reader encounter in Richard Dooling's intriguing, highly inventive noir thriller? Take a gander at the following bullets: CARVER HARTNETT Given another ten years, our investigative sleuth might develop the savvy and keen observation skills of a Philip Marlowe or Sam Spade. But right now, he's only twenty-eight and comes across as a hardboiled Huck Finn with a lot to learn. Deep into the novel, Carver reflects back on what those around him said in the opening chapters and realizes, a bit too late, that he failed to pick up on important clues. And, yes, like other characters, his name is Richard Dooling's nod to the golden era of noir - Chandler, Cain, and Hammett. LENNY STILLMACH “Lenny is one of those guys who turn dangerously good-looking at age nineteen and then spend the rest of their lives ravaging their classical good looks with romantic substance abuse.” In addition to his frequent use of drugs like ecstasy, Lenny is covered with tattoos and has various body piercings (ears, nose, mouth). Lenny is also manic-depressive. Recognizing the ultra-conservative nature of the insurance industry, why would Lenny be permitted through the front door? The answer is simple: Lenny is a genius computer geek, possessing the skills needed to uncover, collate, and analyze the necessary data to identify insurance fraud. Thus, along with Carver, Lenny Stillman is a key member of the Special Investigations Unit. What Lenny Stillmach is not is a good people person. A crisis is at hand: Lenny used the wrong language when speaking with a Nigerian lawyer while denying claims for twenty deceased Nigerians, all with the name Mohammed Bilkos. This recorded conversation leads to Lenny's dismissal. However, Carver is suspicious. Surely there must be other reasons, as Lenny is such a valuable company asset, saving Reliable Allied Trust hundreds of thousands of dollars. And that very night, following a whirl at a casino along with excessive drug use and alcohol consumption, Lenny Stillmach is the one found dead in his apartment. MIRANDA PRYOR What's crime noir without a femme fatale? Meet the luscious, alluring lady who also works with Carver and Lenny in the Special Investigations Unit. “She draped herself over the minibar and gave me the limp wrist, the painted eyelids, the decadent, hooded gaze, the dulcet, low-throated croon of Lauren Bacall in The Big Sleep or Barbara Stanwyck in Double Indemnity.” Is Carver madly in love with Miranda? You bet he is. Was Lenny also madly in love with lovely Miranda? Oh, yes. To add fuel to the heart's fire, Miranda Pryor keeps deep secrets, one deep, dark secret disclosed toward the end, a true shocker. OLD MAN NORTON Like his father before him, Dead Man Norton, the best crackerjack insurance investigator in the Midwest, Old Man Norton is the boss heading up Reliable's Special Investigations Unit. For a spot-on likeness of Norton, think of cigar chomping Edward G. Robinson playing Keyes in the 1944 classic, Double Indemnity, the favorite movie of both father and son. [image] POLICE INSPECTOR BECKER Becker is a beefy detective from the old school, a guy who uses a lead pencil instead of a computer and lots of driving around in his car and plain old shoe-leather to hunt down the culprits. If you want a good picture of Becker, think back to Dashiell Hammett's Continental Op in Red Harvest or The Dain Curse. VIATICAL LIFE INSURANCE POLICIES Here's how it works: A healthy thirty-year-old named Bob buys a $100,000 life insurance policy. At the age of forty, Bob contracts AIDS and desperately needs money for medicine and medical bills. He decides to sell his policy to Ace Viatical Company for $20,000, enabling him to access the funds necessary for his treatment. Tragically, Bob passes away at the age of forty-two, and Ace Viatical collects the $100,000 payout. This practice is entirely legal; however, there are numerous angles and potential scams that can be exploited, both by individuals buying and selling policies, and notably, by viatical companies. Carver discovers the hard way just how ruthless a viatical company can be. OMAHA Caver looks out of Old Man Norton's large corner office window at this city that's the insurance capital of the Midwest “nestled in a bend of the Missouri River, and across the water in the middle distance Harveys and Harrah's casinos, the dog tracks and porn emporiums of Council Bluffs, Iowa.” Now that it's the late 1990s, the entire population mixes alcohol with drugs -lots of drugs of every variety, both legal and illegal. Gone are the good old days of God, family, and Cornhusker football. All-American, spanking-clean Omaha wallows in the seediness of Chandler's LA. Carver and Miranda were the ones who whooped it up with Lenny that night. They are also the ones who went back to Lenny's apartment and found him dead. Bet Your Life counts as a fast-paced nail-biter filled with unexpected twists, reversals, and turns, propelled by viatical insurance policies where Carver and Miranda and Lenny are among those deeply involved both as buyers and beneficiaries. On another level, the novel is one of ideas: life and death, heaven and hell, fatalism and free will, a novel very much worth any reader's time, especially if one is a fan of classic crime noir. [image] American novelist Richard Dooling, born 1954 ...more |
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it was amazing
| [image] Village in Sierra Leone, West Africa Michael Killigan, a twentysomething Peace Corps volunteer stationed in a village in Sierra Leone, West Afr [image] Village in Sierra Leone, West Africa Michael Killigan, a twentysomething Peace Corps volunteer stationed in a village in Sierra Leone, West Africa, goes missing during a time of turbulent political unrest. The search is on. Michael's father, a kingpin bankruptcy lawyer in Indianapolis, uses his money and influence to ensure all possible measures are taken by the government and related agencies to track down his son. Meanwhile, Boone, Michael's best friend, travels to Sierra Leone to join the quest. White Man's Grave, (a term coined by British colonialists to describe Sierra Leone as a country infested with deadly malaria-carrying mosquitoes) is a much-overlooked classic originally published in 1994, a novel I've read multiple times. Richard Dooling has written an extraordinary work portraying the clash of two vastly different cultures: suburban Indianapolis, USA , and the West African bush. However, the American author cleverly highlights the similarities between tribal magic and the practices of our modern science and legal systems. As one anthropologist puts it, “Villagers hire bad medicine men, or hale nyamubla, to harm an enemy with witchcraft or bad medicine the same way an American would, say, hire a lawyer to sue somebody.” The humor overflows when Richard Dooling details the various ways Boone Westfall, American born and bred, goes about “trying to find your way around Sierra Leone with a map of Indiana.” The comedy (and also the searing drama) snaps, crackles, and propulsively pops in many other ways. Here's a sampling: WARLORD ON THE WARPATH Michael Killigan's dad aspired to become the best bankruptcy lawyer in the country. “It would be a few years before Randall could scorch the earth in enough Chicago bankruptcy courts to make his name synonymous with commercial savagery in the Seventh Circuit, but he was working on it.” Randall Killigan lives and breathes the bankruptcy code, wielding enough knowledge to outmaneuver anyone who dares to oppose him. In his lavish office, surrounded by his legal team, which includes several women, Randall mutes the speakerphone when a lawyer presents a plan he's attempting to impose on Killigan's client. Randall fumes, “You pathetic village idiot. You can use your goddamed plan of reorganization as insulation in your shithouse, boy. I am going to cut your fucking head off and mount it on a pike in the middle of your front lawn, understand?” Randall is unapologetic about his coarse language, caring little if any of his assistants, particularly the women, take offense. Similarly, he promptly dismisses any accusations of chauvinism and sex discrimination from others in his firm, confident that he would easily prevail if they ever dared to sue him in court. ARTISTE WANNABE Boone Westfall studied literature and art in college. Now that he's a graduate, how is he going to make a living? Boone thinks he'll set up his art studio back home in his parents' basement. His father, the owner of an insurance company, tells Boone, “No,” and that, like his three older brothers, he can pay rent on his own apartment by working a job at the company. Once at the insurance office, brother Pete outlines Boone's duties in handling claims, or more accurately, denying claims. Pete gives Boone a couple of examples: denying a homeowner's claim (a responsible person doesn't let his house burn to the ground) and denying a cancer patient's claim for a bone transplant (a parent or grandparent surely had cancer, thus a preexisting condition, thus no coverage). Ruthlessness and deception, anyone? After a year on the job, Boone, the artist, has little reason to stick around and packs off to meet up with his friend Michael in Paris. WEST AFRICAN BAD MAGIC IN INDIANA Randall Killigan receives a mysterious package from Sierra Leone containing a foul smelling black egg-shaped something or other the size of a small football with a nasty red spout wrapped in ghastly rags. Thinking it might have some connection with his missing son, Randall puts it on a shelf in his bedroom closet next to his gun collection. Three nights thereafter it happens: Randall wakes up in the middle of the night. “He saw or dreamed that he saw a bat in his own bedroom. A huge bat. He saw it by the muddy glow from the night light in the corner, just enough visibility to make him wonder if he was of sound mind and vision. At first, he concluded that he was hallucinating, because the thing was so big, with a three-or four-foot wingspan, big enough to darken the bedroom bay windows. He almost felt his ear cup itself and grow toward the fluttering image, straining to hear the whisper of leather wings. Then it almost deafened him with a loud thwock! that sounded like a piece of wood hitting a sounding board. Then thwock again – terrifyingly close to him and so loud he could feel sound rushing around his face like a current.” The nightmare intensifies. Randall crawls across the room to his closet and grabs a tennis racket and then turns on the ceiling lights. “The bat shot directly overhead, so close he could see the massive span of its fingered wings, its furry torso, its shrieking face, which he glimpsed in one vivid instant, before blinking in terror. It had the head of a dog, or even a small horse, with a hideous, swollen snout, and lips bristling with warts or tumors. The eyes were large, innocent pools of blackness, staring in wonder, almost as if the creature did not quite believe in Randall either.” A few more deadly swoops and the bat disappears. Randall's wife, Marjorie, wakes only to find a terrified Randall in his underwear holding his tennis racket. Take a look at the below photo and you can imagine the intensity of Randall's encounter with this bat, a bat he eventually is told by a bat expert is none other than a giant West African Fruit Bat. However, Randall Killigan, forever the rational lawyer, fails to make the connection between his vision and the mysterious bundle. [image] The way Randall goes about dealing with his horrific experience is one of the true highlights of the novel. GOOBER IN THE AFRICAN BUSH Again, Boone proves himself the prototypical arrogant, narrow-minded Westerner once he arrives in Sierra Leone. Any guesses on his finding his friend, Michael Killigan, or doing anybody any good with his presence among people whose culture and outlook on life are drastically different than his own? White Man's Grave speaks to many of the multiple challenges we face here in 2023. Enlighten up; read this novel. [image] American novelist Richard Dooling, born 1954 ...more |
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[image] Wow! Artificial intelligence, biochemistry, physics, mathematics – Greg Egan has it all going here. A multidimensional, fast-paced adventure wh [image] Wow! Artificial intelligence, biochemistry, physics, mathematics – Greg Egan has it all going here. A multidimensional, fast-paced adventure where we're never quite sure if men or women are their flesh-and-blood selves or copies created in a computer simulation. In order not to give away too much of the unfolding zip, zappy action, I'll make an immediate cut to a batch of snapshots: Holy Doppelgänger, Batman! - Paul Durham wakes up as a Copy of himself within an extremely convincing virtual world of his own creation. It's all so real! “Hypothetical light rays were being traced backwards from individual rod and cone cells on his simulated retinas, and projected out into the virtual environment to determine exactly what needed to be computed: a lot of detail near the center of his vision, much less towards the periphery.” Paul can hardly believe his own experience. Paul sent a number of willing subjects into a virtual world but after only about fifteen minutes they all freaked out and terminated themselves. But Paul is determined to continue the experiment, which means he'll dialogue again and again via computer with his flesh-and-blood self in the real world, enough exchanges to test his limits of sanity. Hey, wait a minute! What if he as a Copy has bouts of his previous insanity? Hang in there, Paul. No reason to get too upset. After all, it would only be virtual insanity. Let There Be Virtual Light - Maria Deluca is an Autoverse junkie. “The Autoverse was a 'toy' universe, a computer model which obeyed its own simplified 'laws of physics' – laws far easier to deal with mathematically than the equations of real-world quantum mechanics.” With her strong background in biology and chemistry and physics, Maria has a hard time pulling herself away from her keyboard; after all, there's so many levels of possibility she can work with, things like hunting down mutose molecules and invoking Maxwell's Demon and asking it to find one for her. Hey, Maria. What if someone paid you a huge pile of cash to create your own version of the Autoverse, one that could eventually support intelligent life? Once created, human copies could be sent to inhabit your creation. In that way, we Earthlings could not only simulate first contact with an alien species but those human copies could achieve immortality. Greg Egan challenges us to fire up our brain cells as we explore the consequences of such an Autoverse universe. To Replicate Or Not To Replicate - Thomas Riemann is a wealthy banker and would dearly love to become immortal. However, Thomas feels a ton of guilt having committed a grisly murder, so weighty and so dark the guilt has become a huge part of his personal identity. Now, since Copies are created by a sophisticated computer program, Thomas could have a copy of himself made where that part of his past could be removed. But, once removed, Thomas wonders if he would be the same person or a different person. With Thomas' case, Greg Egan raises a provocative question: If we were given the chance to live for many years in a virtual reality, would we opt to modify ourselves in any way? As I see it, some of the possibilities: a facility to read and write and speak foreign languages (for example, read Plato in the original Greek and Tolstoy in Russian), have an extraordinary talent in a particular field like mathematics or Jungian psychology, alter our background if we were the victim of child abuse, an ability to meditate like a Zen monk...the possibilities are endless. Virtual Reality Gone Wild – Peer is a Copy living in an alternate reality. Kate, Peer's girlfriend, treats him to a night on the town. “At the Cabaret Andalou, the musicians presented as living saxophones and guitars, songs were visible, tangible, psychotropic radiation blasting from the mouths of the singers – and on a good night, a strong enough sense of camaraderie, telepathy, synergy, could by the mutual consent of the crowd take over, melting away (for a moment) all personal barriers, mental and mock-physical, reconstructing with the memories, perceptions and emotions of all the people it had been.” And it continues. Kate helped Peer redesign his apartment, “transforming it from a photorealist concrete box into a system of perceptions which could be stable, or responsive, as he wished. Once, before sleep, he'd wrapped the structure around himself like a sleeping bag, shrinking and softening it until the kitchen cradled his head and the other rooms draped his body. He'd changed the topology so that every window looked in through another window, every wall abutted another wall; the whole thing closed in on itself in every direction, finite but borderless, universe-as-womb.” All of the above is taken from the first third of the novel. From here on out, Greg Egan's imagination combined with permutations of science and math swirl to breathtaking heights. And there's the second part of the book where Paul and Maria take a journey to...for each reader to discover. Actually, as a non-science liberal arts type, I should be given a medal for making it to the last page. There's loads of technical detail to satisfy the scientists in the crowd yearning for the science of science fiction, but even if your background is not computers, math, and science, Permutation City makes for a most rewarding read. Thanks, Greg! [image] Australian author Greg Egan, born 1961 - Greg takes pride in not having any photos of himself available on the web. This photo is the way I picture the outstanding SF novelist writing at his computer. ...more |
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[image] The Greek island of Loutro, off the southern coast of Crete, serves as the location where a Czech named Martin sits at a restaurant by the sea [image] The Greek island of Loutro, off the southern coast of Crete, serves as the location where a Czech named Martin sits at a restaurant by the sea and relates his tale to a fellow countryman who is also a lover of literature. Or, more accurately, a series of tales: stories nesting within stories. It begins with Martin recounting his time in Prague, where he witnessed a murder during a ballet based on Immanuel Kant's Critique of Pure Reason. The victim was Petr Quas, seated in the front row, and the perpetrator was the Thing in Itself. Does this sound fantastic? It is indeed fantastic, and this is just the warm-up. Turns out, the ballet was the creation of Tomáš Kantor, Petr's stepbrother. Tomáš was also murdered; he had been stabbed thirteen times in mysterious circumstances while in Turkey, in the sea at the age of thirty-eight. Martin learns all of this from Kristýna, the beautiful young redhead who was Tomáš' ex-lover. Kristýna goes on to relate the lives of both Petr and Tomáš, including details of the novel Tomáš wrote in his tiny Prague apartment and while working as a train dispatcher in an isolated tower. Tomáš's novel takes place in the imaginary port city of Parca in Southern Europe. At one point, the novel's main character, Marius Sten, sustains a serious injury during a demonstration in the street and is taken by Rita, his girlfriend, to her grandparents' apartment to recover. While there, Marius listens to old Hella as she conveys an elaborate tale created by her husband, Hector, who is, without a doubt, as we come to learn, a phenomenal storyteller. The setting for Hector's yarn is a Central American country in political turmoil. A war breaks out with its southern neighbor. Enemies of the president kidnap Fernando, his son and a writer, holding him prisoner and isolating him in a shack at the edge of their prisoner-of-war camp in the jungle. Despite being devoid of paper and pen and enduring sweltering heat, Fernando devises a method to write a novel during his captivity. Eventually, the war ends, and although Fernando is never seen again, his novel survives. The way the novel was written and the circumstances of its discovery are truly mind-blowing, serving as a prime example of Michal Ajvaz's high-octane, turbo-charged imagination. What about the nature of Fernando's novel? Fernando's father and everyone else in the country expected a fictionalized account of his life as a prisoner-of-war. Surprise! Fernando wrote a futuristic science fiction novel, à la Philip K. Dick, about a man named Leo, initially held captive on the top floor of a modernist skyscraper by the svelte daughter of a billionaire. Leo eventually escapes and befriends two gorgeous women - but then comes the shock: they are not human; rather, one is a robot and the other is an immortal daemon. Do you sense a drama clicking into PKD overdrive? Actually, I found Fernando's novel, retold by Martin in 100 pages, the most compelling and enjoyable part of Journey to the South. [image] All that I've written above only serves as a quick overview. Michael Ajvaz bestows numerous stunning details upon each story, even as those stories unfurl and spiral into further iterations. For example, we are provided with the history of Parca, tracing back to Roman times and extending through the Renaissance, right up to the present day, with a special emphasis on architecture and a particular movement rooted in antiquity. Another instance involves Linda the robot - her development, the abuse she endured at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, and her eventual flight to freedom. One Thousand and One Nights, Sinbad the Sailor, Borges, and Calvino all come to mind. From my own reading, I'd like to add Escher's Loops by Serbian author Zoran Živković, a novel modeled after the artwork of M.C. Escher. In point of fact, toward the end of its 600 pages, Martin's mesmerizing tale even makes a direct reference to the famous Belgian illustrator. As I turned the pages, I envisioned Escher's art on several occasions, such as when I read Martin's account of Tomáš musing on his own writing process: "Tomáš was so fascinated by the voice he was hearing that he knew he would listen to it forevermore. He acknowledged that fate had cracked an excellent joke: Emptiness and what filled it most were one and the same thing. Wrapped up inside it were thousands of stories; in each image and sentence of these stories, other stories were wrapped, in the others yet others, and so on. And the stories didn't just lie there unconcerned - they pushed their way out, demanding to be developed, and that every image, tone, melody, and thought contained within them should be opened out." The second and concluding part of Journey to the South undergoes a shift to an Odyssey-style adventure, wherein Martin and Kristýna assume the roles of amateur detectives, pursuing clues in their quest to uncover who was responsible for the deaths of the two brothers, Petr and Tomáš. Their travels lead them to Hungary, where they engage in discussions about art, origin, and meaning with the artist József Zoltán. These discussions are primarily centered around his artwork, "Meditating Ant," and his utilization of a symbol that they recognize from the city of Parca in Tomáš's novel. Much like an Escher illustration, signs, symbols, characters, and actions from all the stories become linked and interconnected, thereby prompting the pair to persist in their travels and undertake a more extensive and profound investigation. I could go on, but I'll stop here. I've posted reviews for Michal Ajvaz' three other novels published in English: The Other City, The Golden Age, Empty Streets. All are marvelous displays of the Czech author's imagination on fire, but I would think many readers would judge Journey to the South his true masterpiece, a novel I can't recommend highly enough. [image] Czech author Michal Ajvaz, born 1949 ...more |
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[image] They're back! It's 1965, and the Brunists have set up camp on the outskirts of West Condon, near their now famous Mount of Redemption. Five year [image] They're back! It's 1965, and the Brunists have set up camp on the outskirts of West Condon, near their now famous Mount of Redemption. Five years prior, captured on nationwide TV, the drama of the blessed End of the World had turned into a blood-spattered fiasco, and the Brunists found themselves either hauled away to the loony bin or locked up in jail for a time before being kicked out of town. Robert Coover told an interviewer that he had always intended to write a sequel to his 1966 novel, The Origin of the Brunists, but he hesitated since such a project would require many years of hard work, and social realism wasn't the primary way he wanted to create fiction. However, after witnessing the rise and popularity of George W. Bush, a US president who actually brought evangelical religion into the political sphere, he knew the time was right. The Brunist Day of Wrath, published in 2014, is a 1,000-page ripsnorter, a novel I found so compelling and gripping, I could hardly put the book down. I'm a slow reader but I eagerly kept turning the pages and finished this doorstop in nine days. Robert Coover smoothly shifts between dozens of his characters, inhabiting the hearts and guts of women, men, and children who form the now vastly expanded Brunist faithful. Likewise, those townsfolk who have remained in West Condon, even though the town is decidedly more shabby and rundown since the coal mine, the main source of employment, was shut down following the explosion that left 97 miners dead. Additionally, a number of new players make their way on the scene. There's plenty of drama, ranging from the tragic and heart-wrenching to the absurd and comic, with a good chunk of the comic sliding into farce. Surely, the most interesting character is young Sally Elliott, a college student home for the summer. She wears her long hair in tangles, dirty jeans, and scruffy t-shirts featuring sayings of her own making, such as FAITH IS BELIEVING WHAT YOU KNOW AIN'T SO. Sally even has a stash of grass. As her friend Tommy, the good-looking son of a community leader and the owner of the town's bank, observes, "She went off to some dinky liberal arts college where they taught her to dress like a tramp." With Sally, we're given hints of what will become the sixties counter-culture – hippies, Haight-Ashbury, Woodstock. And Sally is an aspiring writer, constantly taking notes and penning caustic remarks in her notebook. 'There's only now. And when that's insupportable, there isn't even that. The hardest thing in life is to face the fact of nothingness without a consoling fantasy: at the brink, no way back, unable to jump. The only thing left is to grow up.' Ah, Sally's words and philosophy are worthy of Jean-Paul Sartre, Albert Camus, Zen masters... and Robert Coover. Lem, the auto mechanic, refers to the Brunists as "those evangelical wackos out at the church camp." Tommy tells Sally that's the prevailing opinion of his dad and the folks in West Condon, that the Brunists are all nuts. Sally replies, "Yeah, well, they're all nuts in here, too, and he hasn't figured that out yet." This exchange is key. Sally is, in effect, echoing Eckhart Tolle when he states, "Thinking without awareness is the main dilemma of human existence." The accuracy of this observation becomes painfully clear in a culminating scene toward the end of the novel. As for the Brunists at their camp, they are far from being one big harmonious family. Clara Collins, the leader of the faithful, repeatedly emphasizes to those around her that their campsite is meant solely for worship and administration; it was never intended for members to actually live there. However, her instructions are being ignored. Hundreds of Brunists from around the country swarm in, setting up their tents and trailers on the grounds, overflowing into a nearby housing development, which leads to various sanitary and other issues. Furthermore, the vast majority of these individuals are poverty-stricken, either having never possessed anything to begin with or having sold their belongings to make the journey, with the expectation of being raptured up to heaven soon. At one point, Sarah Collins, the daughter of Clara, is gang-raped in a wooded area of the camp. One of the leading Brunists, their major financial backer, believes that Sarah must, by choice or fate, be an agent of the dark side. Therefore, her being raped must have either been deserved or at least necessary. What! Can you, the reader, believe such twisted, cruel logic? Yet, such is the tenor of the Brunists' reasoning: if you don't believe exactly what we believe, or if bad things happen to you, you are aligned with the powers of darkness. Talk about being trapped by the stories we create for ourselves – a phenomenon Sally (and indirectly Robert Coover) underscores throughout the novel. The stories we create for ourselves, the dangers and potential for destruction extend well beyond the Brunist camp. To note just two from the pages of Coover's novel: a Presbyterian minister drops his conventional role and wanders in and around West Condon, thinking himself to be Jesus Christ. Additionally, one of the sons of a fire-breathing Brunist preacher heads up a motorcycle gang he calls 'The Wrath of God,' preparing his gang with rifles and dynamite at the ready to extract Godly revenge and retribution. And what do the Brunists think of Sally? When Sally makes her appearance in the camp, many members take her for the Antichrist, but Clara judges her “just a spoiled unkempt brat with more book learning than is good for her.” Which brings us to today's prevailing cultural (or lack of culture) in the US. Robert Coover could envision where George W. Bush's combining Christian fundamentalism with politics could lead. What these present-day Brunist-like folks, drowning in TV stupor, booze, meth, and/or oxycontin, hate is books and education—anything that threatens their stultifying worldview. But, hey, the way they see it, they have God on their side. [image] American author Robert Coover, born 1932 ...more |
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Jul 10, 2023
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Hardcover
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| 0553118404
| 9780553118407
| 0553118404
| 3.97
| 621
| 1966
| Nov 1978
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[image] WASH THE EARTH FROM YOUR HANDS AND FEET, AND CAST YOUR EYES TO THE LIMITLESS STARS! Webster Schott wrote in his 1966 New York Times review that [image] WASH THE EARTH FROM YOUR HANDS AND FEET, AND CAST YOUR EYES TO THE LIMITLESS STARS! Webster Schott wrote in his 1966 New York Times review that Coover's novel “begins as an account of the founding of a crackpot religious sect named for an Italian-American coal miner who miraculously survives a mine disaster that kills 98 others." He goes on to say “Mr. Coover takes apart the economy, power structure, social order and sexual codes of a small town berserk with holiness” and then describes how “the Bruno phenomenon cracks open all the hidden nuts in West Condon.” Oh, Webster Schott! Although you may have hit the bullseye, are you using language that could be deemed politically incorrect by today's standards? The Origin of the Brunists is a much-overlooked classic, a humdinger doozy of a 450-page novel that eerily foresees many aspects of the social climate that have and continue to taint and disrupt life in the US. It's 1960 or thereabouts and we're in West Condon, a coal mining town in the American Midwest, probably Illinois or Ohio. The novel's Prologue takes place in April, on the very day followers of Giovanni Bruno, the Brunists, assemble at the surviving coal miner's home in preparation for their assent tomorrow to the Mount of Redemption to await the End of the World. There's talk of the Kingdom of Light, illumination, mystic fusion, and transformation. This is the language of the ancient Gnostics; however, for the Brunists, Christian fundamentalists that they are, there's a critical difference separating them from those ancient mystics: they take their religion literally. As one member proclaims to a reporter on the scene, “Nothing that is true is merely figurative.” Each Brunist is taught the secret password, the secret handshake, and other secret signals to keep nonbelievers out of their select circle. After all the newspaper people leave and the sun goes down, as a sort of prep run, dressed in special white tunics, the Brunists hop in their cars and drive up to the Mount of Redemption near the coal mine, Deepwater Number 9, where all those miners lost their lives due to an explosion back in January. But once they reach their destination and exchange prayers around a fire... a crisis strikes. Chapter One switches back to that fateful day in January, the morning Number 9 explodes. Robert Coover proves himself master of the craft. These first chapters of the novel propel a reader into what it's like to work as a miner and then, what it's like to struggle and suffer in the face of such a catastrophe when living in a mining town, in this case, the town of West Condon. Turning the pages, I was engrossed and enthralled; I could hardly put the book down. Regarding the aftermath, as Webster Schott observed, all the hidden nuts of the town are cracked open. Abner Baxter, a hellfire preacher, rails curses against the Brunists when he takes a break from beating his sons and daughters with a leather strap, especially his oldest teenage daughter, Francis. Abner demands that Francis expose her naked ass in front of her mother and younger brothers and sister so all can witness the whippings he administers while spouting quotes from the Bible. Abner's sons, meanwhile, terrorize West Condon, leaving excrement on front porches, kill cats, and even burn a Brunist's house down with their usual signature of the "Black Hand." Town fathers form a Common Sense Committee that contains barely a tiny shred of sense, common or otherwise. Much of the novel focuses on Justin "Tiger" Miller, who has returned to town to run the local paper, the West Condon Chronicle. During his high school years, Tiger was the star and led the West Condon basketball team to their one and only state championship game. In many respects, Tiger could be judged as the hero of the tale. Tiger even goes underground and joins the Brunists for a time, developing a loving relationship of a sort with Marcella Bruno, the much younger sister of her enigmatic coal miner brother turned mystic leader. Tiger ensures that the Chronicle overflows with lurid, sensationalist accounts and photographs of the Brunists. Does Tiger's reportage fan the flames of the town's current frenzy and madness? You bet it does. Tiger sends his articles off to big city papers. The Brunists eventually capture the attention of a nationwide audience. TV cameras and an army of journalists descend on West Condon, leading up to the date in April set for the End of the World. Robert Coover keenly detects the power of the media in manipulating public opinion that we have witnessed during these past tumultuous years. The Origin of the Brunists contains none of the author's familiar postmodern, experimental high jinks found in works like Pricksongs & Descants or A Night at the Movies. Nope. In the spirit of Theodore Dreiser, Upton Sinclair, and John Dos Passos, this novel is social realism all the way. Here's Robert Coover describing West Condon back in 1933: “West Condon then was a town of intense poverty, of hatred and suspicion, of prohibition gangsterism, of corruption and lawlessness. The mines still operating paid fifty cents an hour at the coalface, and life, at that face was miserable and precarious. Death came quickly and brutally, and families such as the Brunos lived in its shadow. It came by fire, by falling rock and coal, by power and methane explosions, by the crushing impact of mine cars and locomotives, by falls down shafts. Knees swelled, spines were broken, arms were crushed, lungs were scarred, eyes lost their vision.” Coover also delves into the what it was like being an immigrant, belonging to an ethnic and religious minority such as Italian Catholic. Back on the Brunists. Here's one fanatical member, Eleanor Norton, who claims to repeatedly hear voices from a higher realm speaking to her. A reporter asks Eleanor exactly what the Brunists expect to happen now that today is the day set for the End of the World. Eleanor replies, “We wish to emphasize that the exact . . . content of the Coming of the Light is not known, what precisely it will be or how it will . . . take place. We do know that whatever shape it takes, it will take place today, barring of course unforeseen obstacles caused by the power of darkness.” And there you have it. The fundamentalist fanatics give themselves an out. They are always absolutely 100% right in their proclamations and predictions; however, they can be undone by those “unforeseen obstacles caused by the power of darkness”. It doesn't take a lot of imagination to see a group of frustrated fanatics turning violent against an easy target – the science teacher teaching evolution at their local high school, the couple on the edge of town who are staunch atheists, the liberal, namby-pamby minister of that small church filled with those damn egghead pseudo-intellectuals, the list is endless. The Origin of the Brunists and its 2014 sequel, The Brunist Day of Wrath, deserve a much wider readership. It's not probable, but if these two novels were to ever become prime reading material for young people in America, I can envision the result – book bans and book burnings wouldn't be far behind. [image] American author Robert Coover, born 1932 - photo taken about the time when he wrote the novel ...more |
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Jun 28, 2023
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Mass Market Paperback
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| 0374280290
| 9780374280291
| 0374280290
| 3.28
| 3,463
| 2014
| May 20, 2014
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[image] What would Evelyn Waugh have to say about the current-day British literary scene and such things as the Booker Prize? No doubt, we'd be in stor [image] What would Evelyn Waugh have to say about the current-day British literary scene and such things as the Booker Prize? No doubt, we'd be in store for a measure of scalding irony and wit expressed in exquisite prose, exactly what we find in Edward St. Aubyrn's Lost for Words. The British author told an interviewer his Patrick Melborn novels were very upsetting and difficult to write; he thought he'd either have to finish his novels or finish himself off. Indeed, a not-so-pleasant reality - he wrote with suicide and madness continually in the background. But there came a point where he had to ask himself: Does it have to be that way? The answer: No! He wanted to switch things up and see what it would be like to write a novel where the writing process was actually enjoyable, even fun, write as if playing a game, something he had little chance to experience when he was a lad growing up. Thus, we have the comic novel under review. Lost for Words is a treasure, a joy to read. It is a novel where every single page displays finely crafted sentences that could be used as models in a master class on writing. All of these are contained within a story revolving around the five-person committee charged with choosing the book to win the coveted Elysian Prize. Ah, the glorious Elysian Prize, where there's so much prestige and attention. English gambling houses even display the odds and the public places bets on what books will make the long list, the short list, and finally, with a drumroll with fanfare, the winner. The sponsor of the Elysian is a Monsanto-like agriculture company accused by environmentalists (damn liberal spoilsports!) of Elysian products causing cancer, disrupting the food chain and, since St. Aubyn's satire can occasionally become Monty Pythonesque, turning cattle into cannibals. As for the committee members themselves, St. Aubyn surely had a few chuckles having an old Permanent Secretary at the Foreign Office do the choosing of judges to be on the committee. Apart from one academic, the geezer chose a gaggle of totally unqualified Brit nincompoops, beginning with Malcolm Craig, a pompous dipstick who accepted the chairmanship since he was bored as a Parliament backbencher and clamored after a measure of public attention. Regarding the four other members, we have Jo Cross, a gossip columnist who writes mostly about problems with her family and values “relevance” in novels; Penny Feathers, a former member of the Foreign Office and one of the geezer's old girlfriends who is currently writing another one of her shitty third-rate thrillers, Roger and Out; and Tobias Benedict, the geezer's Godson, a young actor too busy playing Estragon in a hip-hop version of Waiting for Godot touring England to actually read novels or attend any committee meetings. Rounding out the committee and bestowing a touch of respectability is the aforementioned academic, Vanessa, who has spent a lifetime immersed in the British classics. I laughed out loud every time Vanessa interacts with her fellow committee members. At one point, Malcolm blabbers on about opposing the London literary establishment and bringing “the marginalized and the politically repressed voices from the periphery” into the spotlight (Malcolm has a definite political agenda geared to Scottish novels). Vanessa retorts, “Before we all stand up and sing “The Internationale”, do you think we could take a glance at what we've been “duly appointed” to do?'" She then goes on to speak about the true nature of literature. Ha! You can imagine how her talking about literary standards and good writing is received by this bunch of non-literary boobs. Turning to the Elysian Prize itself, St. Aubyn sharpens his satirical needle to give us select passages from the contenders. The British author said, with a laugh, that writing these bits of mimicry and parody flowed seamlessly, unlike the dozens of rewrites he usually must work through in his own writing. There are excerpts from novels such as an Irvine Welsh-like mauling of the English language in wot u starin at and All the World's a Stage, a historical novel written from the point of view of William Shakespeare. These snatches of awful writing are truly howlers, yet another reason to treat yourself to Lost in Words or listen to the audiobook expertly narrated by Alex Jennings. And there's plenty of drama (and much comedy) beyond the posturing within the committee. Penny is involved in a bit of nastiness with her daughter, Nicola. Vanessa must deal with Poppy, her daughter who is in the hospital suffering from anorexia, and her son who recently returned from a shamanic vision quest. However, two characters must be highlighted above all others: Katherine and Sonny. Katherine is a fine novelist. Her novel, Consequences, might have won the Elysian if it had been sent to the committee, but, alas, through a comedy of errors, it was not. Katherine is also a beautiful woman who has a talent for making men fall in love with her, which causes many problems. "Katherine's genius for engendering desire and devotion couldn't be expected to deal with all of its consequences." Much of the tale's heartfelt emotion features a number of men passionately loving her, including Alan, her editor, and another novelist, Sam, who himself has a novel on the Elysian shortlist. The zaniest, most over-the-top humor centers on Sonny, a royal personage from India, a true descendant of Krishna, who self-published his two-thousand-page autobiographical magnum opus, The Mulberry Elephant, and travels to London so the British literary world can honor him for winning their Elysian Prize. Edward St. Aubyn must have laughed his loudest when writing about this boorish egomaniac. And what did Sonny do when he learned that his great work didn't even make the longlist? Sonny plans his revenge by, believe it or not, murdering the committee members. In her New York Times review, Anne Enright concludes by stating, “Everything St. Aubyn writes is worth reading for the cleansing rancor of his intelligence and the fierce elegance of his prose — but rollicking, he is not. A knockabout comic novel needs a plot that believes in its own twists and turns, and that is not on offer here.” I disagree. By my reading, Lost for Words is a rollicking romp that believes wholeheartedly in its twists and turns, a comic novel about the literary world, including its prizes, that's not to be missed. [image] British author Edward St. Aubyn, born 1960 ...more |
Notes are private!
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not set
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Jun 14, 2023
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Hardcover
| |||||||||||||||
| 0857668404
| 9780857668400
| 0857668404
| 3.99
| 368
| Apr 14, 2020
| Apr 14, 2020
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[image] With Creeping Jenny, Nyquist mystery #3, Jeff Noon has created a new fictional genre – the hypercreepy. Permit me to explain. A Man of Shadows [image] With Creeping Jenny, Nyquist mystery #3, Jeff Noon has created a new fictional genre – the hypercreepy. Permit me to explain. A Man of Shadows (Nyquist mystery #1) and The Body Library (Nyquist mystery #2) are both urban tales that will bring to mind Philip K Dick and China Miéville whereas Creeping Jenny is set in an English village and shares an uncanny affinity with the supernatural horror yarns penned by Arthur Machen, Robert Aickman and Thomas Ligotti. However, the happenings in Noon's novel are so eerie, weird and ominous, calling this tale creepy simply doesn't suffice – more to the point, we have entered the twisted, far-out freaky realm of the hypercreepy. One interviewer asked Jeff Noon, "Is there any book, written by someone else, that you wish you'd written?" Jeff replied that he has always been jealous of Jorge Luis Borges because the Argentine author created stories about imaginary novels. After all, why write a long novel when you can simply write a short-story about a novel? Jeff's reply speaks to his fertile imagination - I'm sure Jeff could come up with dozens of stories about different fantastical novels. I mention this to underscore the power and uniqueness of Creeping Jenny - many scenes will surely etch themselves in your memory. Jeff Noon frames the tale as follows: we're in the year 1959 and John Nyquist, private investigator by profession, receives seven photographs relating to his missing father from a mysterious sender, photographs beckoning him to a specific village. Is his father alive or dead? And what connects his father to this remote locale? Nyquist possesses deeply personal reasons for setting off to seek answers. Note: Creeping Jenny can be read as a standalone novel but reading A Man of Shadows and The Body Library prior will make for a richer experience. I’m in complete agreement with Stephen King who has stated more than once that dust jackets and book reviewers frequently give away far too much, most especially when it comes to mysteries and thrillers. Not for me to be counted among those culprits, thus I’ll make an immediate shift to a few Creeping Jenny highlights: HOXLEY-ON-THE-HALE J.G. Ballard fumed:"The bourgeois novel is the greatest enemy of truth and honesty that was ever invented. It's a vast, sentimentalizing structure that reassures the reader, and at every point, offers the comfort of secure moral frameworks and recognizable characters." Here we can think of novels by authors such as Agatha Christie and Dorothy Sayers as well as all those popular TV shows set in quaint English villages featuring the likes of Inspector Morse, Father Brown or Chief Inspector Tom Barnaby. Jeff Noon cites Ballard as a prime influence and Jeff shares J.G.'s hatred of the conventional novel. The tale's English village, Hoxley-on-the-Hale, is anything but quaint or charming; quite the opposite, every aspect of the village and its surroundings is disturbing, menacing and sinister in the extreme – in a word, hypercreepy. Take the days dedicated to their local village saints – 360 days a year in total and each day demanding a different ritual. For instance, in observance of one saint, no speaking is permitted for the entire day - sophisticated arm and hand gestures only, a type of village-created sign language. On another day, all villagers wear a semitransparent mask that fuses with one's face, females wear the Alice mask and males wear the Edmund mask. And all villagers take on the names of Alice and Edmund. On still other days...well, again, Creeping Jenny is a tale of supernatural horror. An additional village quirk: a saint is not assigned a specific day on the calendar. Every year saints and days are scrambled so villagers don't know what the next day will bring until informed by village elders. Sound weird? It is very weird. And are these villagers Christian? Maybe. There's a church at the end of the main road and a villager speaks the name of Jesus once but the more information we're given regarding these saints, odds are they're pagan. Want a good laugh? Imagine Jane Marple or Chief Inspector Tom Barnaby hunting down clues in Hoxley-on-the-Hale. TOLLY MAN Walking by the village green on his first evening in Hoxley-on-the-Hale, hearing a song being sung, Nyquist peers into the gloom - “The dancers circled around each other, and around the pole. Their song continued, its words audible now, or nearly so, floating in the dark air. Sing along a Sally, O The moon is in the valley, O He couldn't help but be drawn forth by the sight and the sound, close enough to feel the shadow children as they passed by, close enough almost to be a dancer himself, caught in a game. And even this close he was still unsure: were the children real, or imagined? The music, the slap of the ribbons and the shrieks of joy or terror, the motion of the wind writing its own story across the surface of the pond, he saw it all, and saw nothing, and reached out, steady now, steady, and he brushed against one child, a young boy, and felt hardly anything from the contact other than a breath. Their song had more substance than their bodies. Come to grief or come what may, Tolly Man, Tolly Man, come out to play! And then they were gone, in an instant.” I include this extended snippet to provide an example of how Jeff Noon creates an atmosphere, a mood, a feeling tone that grows deeper and darker as we turn the pages. And, of course, with the mention of a Tolly Man we hear echoes of The Wicker Man - 1973 British horror film starring Edward Woodward. In point of fact, we can easily picture thirtyish John Nyquist looking a bit like the famous actor. [image] NEVERMORE Oh, I could list many more highlights, among their number: a swan with two heads, an ominous pool of water, a mysterious dark tower and even Creeping Jenny herself. But, alas, I'm writing a book review not a book so I'll conclude with a vivid detail (thus giving Jeff Noon the last words) and the wish you will treat yourself to this hypercreepy tale that, in the end, contains great beauty. “The noise came again. Nyquist turned. He walked over to the birdcage on its stand. It was covered in a purple cloth. He lifted this off and peered through the bars. The brightly colored budgerigar was no longer in residence. Instead a raven was standing on the perch, its body and wingspan far too large for the cage. Like a creature from a nightmare it beaded him with one yellow eye, its head turned to the side. A single diamond of white marked its forehead, like the symbol of a castle, or an assassin's guild.” [image] [image] British author Jeff Noon, Born 1957 ...more |
Notes are private!
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Apr 30, 2022
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Apr 30, 2022
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Paperback
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| 0517599910
| 9780517599914
| 0517599910
| 4.04
| 9,907
| 1993
| Jan 17, 1995
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[image] Vurt - novel as unending hallucinatory, wild, intense fever dream. Full Disclosure: I relished reading every single page. How did Noon do it? I [image] Vurt - novel as unending hallucinatory, wild, intense fever dream. Full Disclosure: I relished reading every single page. How did Noon do it? In an interview, the British author recounts pouring fifteen years of personal frustration into his writing the novel, letting the burning and channeling just happen. Noon also cites reading lots of J.G. Ballard when he was young and being struck by Ballard's very personal, distinctive voice. When Noon read Ballard it was as if he entered Ballard's mind. And that's what he wanted to accomplish with his own writing: to have every single sentence be distinctively his, including his own take on how technology, dreams, music, drugs and the whole 1990s rave scene can penetrate our flesh. Jeff Noon goes on to say he thrives on mixing literary genres in with surrealism and what's considered avant-garde. As a hater of conventional novels, he wanted to cut out the middle and jam different elements together within his story, invent new ways to tell his tale, recognizing much of the newness blossomed from his mad ideas. Mad ideas? They gush, drip, stream and flutter off each page. Taste a handful of hits: VURT In this futuristic world, the drug of choice turns out to be a substance on various kinds of feathers. The potency runs from low-level legal Soapvurt where the user goes to live in a neat and tidy house and gets to interact with famous soap opera characters (seems like the whole world is hooked on Soapvurt) to illegal superpowerful feathers like Black Voodoo that propel you to a parallel reality where you will experience either ecstasy or a nightmare so frightening it will drive you into madness. STASH RIDERS The Riders are a gang of illegal Vurt junkies: Beetle (the leader), Mandy, Bridget, Twinkle, and the tale's narrator, twenty-three-year-old Scribble. The novel follows the month-long odyssey of these Vurt users in their city of Manchester. Through all the Stash Riders' moves, curves, swerves and highs, Jeff Noon zooms at turbocharged full-throttle. The English language on speed. THING-FROM-OUTER-SPACE Scribble lugs around a talking, feather imbibing blob that appears to be combination giant octopus and oily psychedelic slug he calls 'the alien' – and for good reason: this creature plopped in our world from the world of Vurt to maintain cosmic balance. That's right, Scribble's sister/lover Desdemona became trapped inside Vurt some time ago and something from Vurt had to take her place. Scribble attempts to travel to Vurtland with the alien by way of a rare Curious Yellow feather in order to rescue Desdemona via a switch, blob for sister. Scribble's desire to effect this switcheroo serves as the major drive and focus of Vurt. SHADOWCOPS “Broadcasting from the store wall, working his mechanisms; flickering lights in smoke. And then the flash of orange; an inpho beam shining out from the shadowcop's eyes. It caught Mandy in its flare-path, gathering knowledge.” One of the freakier elements in Jeff Noon's phantasmagorical tale: law and order shadowcops appear to be part flying android, part metaphysical mist creature capable of reading people's minds, exactly what Vurt junkies operating outside the law don't need. DREAMSNAKES “Dreamsnakes came out of a bad feather called Takshaka. Any time something small and worthless was lost to the Vurt, one of these snakes crept through in exchange. Those snakes were talking over, I swear. You couldn't move for them.” Thus speaketh Scribble. And Scribble should know since a dreamsnake once sunk its fangs into his lower leg. Result: Scribble always carries around something of the Vurt in his blood. [image] SHADOWGIRLS “Bridget must have the same feeling; she was looking daggers at the new girl (Mandy), smoke rising from her skin, as she tried her best to tune into Beetle's head.” Bridget is a real human girl but with special qualities including the extrasensory ability to read other people's minds which makes her a shadowgirl. One thing's for certain: it bodes well Bridget is a bona fide member of the Stash Riders since, in the bugged out turf of this futuristic England, a gang needs all the powers it can muster. FLESHCOPS AND ROBODOGS “Murdoch's gun roared and flashed, but the dog was first, knocking her off her feet. The shecop was on the floor, Karli on top of her, biting at her face.” Oh, yes, the Stash Riders must square off against their ultimate nemesis: a real flesh and blood shecop by the name of Murdoch. And Murdoch isn't the kind of cop to give up when she wants to make a kill in the name of law and order. As for Karli, we're talking a dog critter that's pure android. Ah, yes, echoes of Philip K. Dick. DAS UBERDOG “A perfect split, straight across the middle. Sometimes it happens like that, once in a thousand matings. He was human from the waist up, dog from the waist down. He placed his fur-covered legs down on the floor, sitting on the bed, with the Karli in his strong arms.” What! How can such a half-half being have come into existence? Are we rumbling through a far distant futuristic England here, as in after nuclear war? No answers are provided; Jeff Noon leave it all to one's imagination. GAME CAT PSYCOTERROR “THE HAUNTINGS. This is the bitch incarnate. Once that ghost has got hold of you, you just gotta go with her. Back to life, back to the boredom. That's how you feel right? Except that the Haunting isn't a bad thing. What? What's that, the Cat's saying? Haunting isn't bad? Man, the Cat's losing it! Listen up, kittlings.” Scribble's narrative is punctuated by dreamy, vaporous quotes from GAME CAT. Who and what is this shadowy presence? You'll have to read the entire tale to fathom the mystery. If what I've highlighted here grabs you and you're moved to pick up a copy of Vurt then I've done my job as reviewer. However, if you choose to take a pass then it might be best if you return to Anthony Trollope and pretend our everyday world is the only world that counts as real. [image] British author Jeff Noon, born 1957 ...more |
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it was amazing
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| 3.90
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| 3.97
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| 3.28
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Jun 14, 2023
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| 3.99
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May 04, 2022
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Apr 23, 2022
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