Should the initial phase of heroic manly deeds in the rugged outdoors of the last wilderness wear on the reader's patience, however engaging the storyShould the initial phase of heroic manly deeds in the rugged outdoors of the last wilderness wear on the reader's patience, however engaging the storytelling voice may be, that reader is advised to watch for the cracks that Hawkes carefully underscores in the great American myths of frontier, manifest destiny, moral certainty, and endless expansion. Uncle Jake -- innocent, well-meaning, puritanical, blind to undercurrents and nuances, possessed by the fits of unseeing certainty of those incapable of self-reflection -- is an emblem of the American Hero in this mythic landscape, but his guideposts, were he able to fully note them, are the crash of '29, Disillusionment Bay, and his eventual biographer: his cynical, self-determining daughter, a successful bush pilot and prostitute preparing to leave Alaska behind for good. This is late Hawkes, fully embracing the joys of yarn-spinning narrative at last, but with a certain postmodern care in arranging his interlinked the novellas and a faithfulness to the yawning fissures prone appear in ideal lives elsewhere in his work....more
A sort of small-town Canadian Last Exit to Brooklyn complete with random acts of violence and spurts of formal experimentation and deconstruction. In A sort of small-town Canadian Last Exit to Brooklyn complete with random acts of violence and spurts of formal experimentation and deconstruction. In general, it has more of a tilt towards horror, however without the full supernatural post-modernism later harnessed in his much more conceptually developed Pontypool Changes Everything. Here, instead, we encounter various scattered scenes of destruction and dissolution, often under an impassive eye granting equal attention to any axe blow or leaf shivering in the rain....more
Thinking is pure misery, a job assigned to the miserable and the wretched, to think each thought to its horrible and suffocating end.
A failure to make
Thinking is pure misery, a job assigned to the miserable and the wretched, to think each thought to its horrible and suffocating end.
A failure to make sense of the chaos of details, events, and thoughts that comprise banal existence. In its sense of paranoid connectivity, Fra Keeler could be said to resemble The Crying of Lot 49, but instead of building mysterious certainties to be later undermined, this builds incoherent reflections from nothing and attempts to build to a startling climax from them. The results don't seem justifiably to follow from the lead-up, but perhaps this is precisely the point -- that violence is always an unjustified breach of continuity. Still, I'm reaching here, to find some points of coherency in an otherwise claustrophobic and rather maddening story....more
At last, a full-on English-language Nicole Claveloux collection. This contains The Green Hand, which is what I mainly knew her from via late-70s HeavyAt last, a full-on English-language Nicole Claveloux collection. This contains The Green Hand, which is what I mainly knew her from via late-70s Heavy Metal issues, and it continues in its extended form as it was in microcosm: dreamily unpredictable, saturated in deep shadowy color contrasts, a little over-archetypal, but still one of the least typical and most interesting bits to turn up in Heavy Metal -- Claveloux and writer/collaborator Zha were also not so incidentally among the only women in those pages. I wish this also contained their other story together Dead Times, instead it has a somewhat random sampling of solo Claveloux shorts, which are more hit or miss, despite bits of great artwork and surrealist lapses seeded throughout....more
Naive-precise psychotropic risographing, a continued refinement of the sort of stuff Kyle started with Distance Mover, reproduced here via non-risograNaive-precise psychotropic risographing, a continued refinement of the sort of stuff Kyle started with Distance Mover, reproduced here via non-risograph for kuš' wider distribution powers. The story seems to be a vaguely cyclic trip involving a particular smoke or vapor. Whoa, have there seriously been 58 of of these minis already?...more
Entirely inessential. An enjoyable enough way of recirculating through the lingering questions of the series, perhaps, but really just fluff that repeEntirely inessential. An enjoyable enough way of recirculating through the lingering questions of the series, perhaps, but really just fluff that repeats without specifically adding anything....more
As much as I can tell from a few encounters its practitioners, the New Weird subset of forward-thinking genre fiction over the last 20 years or so seeAs much as I can tell from a few encounters its practitioners, the New Weird subset of forward-thinking genre fiction over the last 20 years or so seems situated between the polls of Lovecraft, surrealism, and the science fiction new wave, whose social themes and experimentation weren't always as readily picked up by the fantasy writing of the time. Throw in for good measure a bit of the alien causality of Roadside Picnic, and in Cisco's case postmodernism, and you may have a decent idea of whether this is the sort of thing you might read. Which is to say, a fantasy story with the unearthly immediacy of a dream and a deep concern for its own process of unfolding.
The plot concerns Low, whose studies as a narrator are interrupted, but not overlooked, by his sudden conscription into the military, where control of the dominant narrative may be of vital utility. The interests of the book lie in this self-interrogation, along with various interruptions and disturbances of narrative expectation, in attempting to capture the nightmarish arbitrariness of war, and in the utter strangeness of landscapes and cities over which the action unfolds, where much is suggested and little explained. At times I feel Cisco tips a little too far into necromantic particulars of that inescapable sub-theme of war, death (which is not constrained to this story but a major preoccupation of the only other Cisco I've read as well), but everything remains genuinely bizarre and original enough for it to stay clear of adolescent morbidity. There's really not much out there like it....more
Fragmentary moments inscribed in narrative. What begin plausibly autobiographical reflections gradually move towards more stylized or surprising formsFragmentary moments inscribed in narrative. What begin plausibly autobiographical reflections gradually move towards more stylized or surprising forms, while maintaining an intrinsic quiet insight....more
One for that peculiar literature of arbitrary and inescapable doom that I hadn't really grouped in my head until now: Aminadab, Frances Johnson, The TOne for that peculiar literature of arbitrary and inescapable doom that I hadn't really grouped in my head until now: Aminadab, Frances Johnson, The Third Policeman. The narrative guides reader and protagonist towards despair by sequential underminings and denial of the pillars of one's day-to-day identity: family, mentor, work, home, self. It was difficult for me to make out the true contours of the novel until I neared the end -- only now in retrospect are all the silly names, words seemingly strung together for unexpected clashes of sound and tone, and nonsensical riffs of dialogue, at the time somewhat patience-trying, revealed as fully sinister, perhaps meaningful. As such, even as I write this, I feel a mounting sense of needing to revisit and reassess. Possibly from the start. I didn't really feel that I was enjoying this until after it was finished, but now I'm filled with mounting intrigue and appreciation....more
Classic pop-theoretical discourse (via kinetic typography and image) on the effects of changing media in the 20th century. Prescient. Perhaps as relevClassic pop-theoretical discourse (via kinetic typography and image) on the effects of changing media in the 20th century. Prescient. Perhaps as relevant in today's hyperconnectivity as in the television era of its conception. And with a kind of ambivalence of value that seems appropriate: once technology changes, there's no going back and it may be more useful to "inventory the effects" than to judge or decry....more
There's a kind of false transparency about this (taped conversations between friends chatting on the beach in the Hamptons in 1965 transcribed as "novThere's a kind of false transparency about this (taped conversations between friends chatting on the beach in the Hamptons in 1965 transcribed as "novel") that belies Rosenkrantz's deftness in piecing these three lives together from the countless more she recorded as sources. The result is warm, strongly characterized, and precisely sequenced. It's also very funny, off-handedly funny because the characters are so full realized and likeable (how could people so real be in fact composites!?) that their patterns of thought and interaction take on a rare immediacy. (Contrast with the unfunniness (to me) of John Barth's arch constructedness -- I'm reading him in parallel). Anyway, this is very New York (albeit the limited part of New York that could afford to lounge on the beach in the Hamptons), very art world (our trio are painter, actress, writer), very 1960s: the self-analytic content of their conversation is generated mostly through the cultural forces of psychoanalysis and the sexual revolution. So it's obviously dated, but retains (through its unusual immediacy) a level insight into the human condition undiluted by time. Thoroughly enjoyable....more
As critics decried the Death of the Novel, Death of the Story, Death of the Author, Death of et cetera, Barth took it upon himself to revel in the debAs critics decried the Death of the Novel, Death of the Story, Death of the Author, Death of et cetera, Barth took it upon himself to revel in the debris, causing further destruction in the process. Despite being billed as a connected series, this collection covers a lot of relatively unconnected ground, veering between personal narrative, self-reflexive formal pyrotechnics, and re-constructed mythology. It's all very clever, but the content, for me, sometimes fails to keep pace with the cleverness. Earlier in the book, we have more linear narratives that can lag due mainly to their comedic conceits not being funny enough to propel their complete lengths; later, we run into complete deconstruction that may lack any content besides its own form, or Greek mythologies repurposed to obscure meta-purposes. (I'm no classicist, but I would think I'd know enough to navigate these reasonably well, but they seem to get lost in manipulating own ersatz period mechanics. Closer "Anonymiad" is the only one with any kind of story-form equilibrium). Despite this, somehow it's actually the insane metastories in the center that attracted me the most -- the narrative-formal-reflexive sweet spot of the title story, the metaphysical panic of "Life-Story" and "Title" -- each of these is remarkable, but exist as bright points amid a bit of slogging. Still worth it for these, and perhaps for much more if more patient readers excavate this further. Impatient readers will get nowhere -- see apparent complaint of critics who took the opener to be narrated by a fish. No, it's much weirder and better than that, even if the conceit is pushed somewhat beyond patience for any who caught on from the first pages. So, basically, I continue to find Barth interesting but rather trying. At least there were no characterizations that bugged me as much as in Giles, Goat Boy...more
These feel formative -- Walsh's writing is sharp and incisive, but even in connected form her stories or fragments of experience have yet to reach a tThese feel formative -- Walsh's writing is sharp and incisive, but even in connected form her stories or fragments of experience have yet to reach a totally cohesive book-length form yet. But watch out when they do. Taken as separate stories here, there are some real gems though -- the one about taking one's children to the hospital especially. Taken as strings of playfully intelligent phrases and insights, this sparkles throughout....more
Dense, dizzying, and intelligent through its grimy sheen of pulp frenzy. Gibson has a fantastic ability to paint in a vivid sense of place and atmosphDense, dizzying, and intelligent through its grimy sheen of pulp frenzy. Gibson has a fantastic ability to paint in a vivid sense of place and atmosphere with great economy (and stylistic control), and his plotting is unrelentingly gripping in an elaborate post-noir mode. This novel encompasses so much (and so much Gibson had to invent to write it) as to leave a pretty impossible act to follow for anything coming after, from Gibson himself, or from his countless imitators....more
After a loved one vanishes, a women biochemist in Cairo, buffered from her field by a dead-end bureaucratic job, begins a process of self-reassessmentAfter a loved one vanishes, a women biochemist in Cairo, buffered from her field by a dead-end bureaucratic job, begins a process of self-reassessment, a search. As with other better Egyptianhe mode is modernist, the images the stuff of Kafka and nightmare, and the unreality of alienated contemporary life. While many of the problems she faces as a women would be tempting to dismiss as Egyptian or past problems, to do this is to ignore plenty of entirely current resonance. As such, they may serve as emblems of deeper and more universal malaise....more
The minimal flow of images and associations here, rendered in slightly watery ink layers, might make this seem to be a bit of a stream-on-conscious seThe minimal flow of images and associations here, rendered in slightly watery ink layers, might make this seem to be a bit of a stream-on-conscious semi-abstract narrative, but for Cossé's trick of making sure that each detail appears twice. In the resulting web of associated images, a kind of circuitous narrative lurks in almost-realization. Slight, but enjoyable....more
Power doesn't just corrupt. Power is corrupt. Inherently all too often. And assured in power, it's all too easy for a stronger nation or people to blaPower doesn't just corrupt. Power is corrupt. Inherently all too often. And assured in power, it's all too easy for a stronger nation or people to blame a weaker for its misfortunes, and take its state as justification not only in denying aid, but heaping further misfortune. The exploited will continue to be easy targets for exploitation. This minimal, absurd fable would seem to be a bit too on-the-nose if we weren't doing exactly this, as a nation, at the present moment. Now more than ever, and certainly more than when Saunders presciently penned it 10 years ago.
Bonus points for the level of extreme reduction that disassembles characters into mere collections of object/attributes to an extent that Urmuz would surely approve of....more
Is this Joanna Russ' earliest work? Certainly the first stories of a women adventurer in classical times are among her most conventional adventure yarIs this Joanna Russ' earliest work? Certainly the first stories of a women adventurer in classical times are among her most conventional adventure yarns, but they still have a nuance of character and gender identity that look ahead the the futuristic novel included here (and reviewed by me elsewhere in a stand-alone edition -- Picnic on Paradise) and at last to the closing meta-story set in the 20s and looking further ahead to her magnum opus, The Female Man. Quick but deft and well-conceived. A good companion, perhaps, to her friend Delaney's later forays into early civilization and fantasy in his Neveryon stories....more
As far as personal accounts of Colonialist China from the British perspective, Denton Welsh's avatar here, a gay teen who just wants to paint and expeAs far as personal accounts of Colonialist China from the British perspective, Denton Welsh's avatar here, a gay teen who just wants to paint and experience new things, is about as inoffensive as you could hope for. Still a strange to voyage into this severely patronizing and xenophobic system, but it's good that such a sensorially dense record exists....more
Cynical comfort reading. Jansson's stories won't warm the depths of mid-winter, but may encourage you to accept that the frozen snowy dark is temporarCynical comfort reading. Jansson's stories won't warm the depths of mid-winter, but may encourage you to accept that the frozen snowy dark is temporary and not entirely meritless if one remains open to its potential. People also. Most of them are irritating in some way or another, but it'll be okay. They're probably also well-meaning in some way....more