Quick words on digressive genetics, evil capitalists, and Mark A. Rayner

This book surprised me--no, I mean it really surprised me. In the first chapter, monkeys and a Kimono dragon crash a wedding, send an old lady to the hospital, and generally succeed in making you laugh very, very hard.

This is a whole new kind of Crossing Chaos novel. Even more than Vital Fluid, it forgoes elaborate textual mechanics, but still succeeds in telling a complex, dynamic story: an organic one. (The aesthetic text is many things, but let me just say, it is not natural). Some really interesting concepts make their way in there as well; and like I said, it's very, very funny.

This is a story of the digression from man to primate--actually, no it's not. Instead, the narrative is delivered from what might seem (but isn't) a secondary perspective. Mostly, a bunch of really cool people hang out, fall in love, do acid, drink alcohol, have illicit sex, cross-generational sex, vendetta sex, and... monkey sex? There are evil businessmen, drug dealers, thugs, katanas, clove cigarettes, and ghosts. (Yup, ghosts.)

One of my favorite things about this book is how natural it all feels. Having finished it, I have trouble believing that, in some form or another, the characters don't exist (excepting Shute--I know he exists). There are some really poignant moments in there, often at extremely unexpected times, which makes them more poignant still. The ideas are good, and most importantly, fresh.

If you're interested, you can win a free copy (or appear in Mark's next book). Check here for more information... I think it's a pretty good deal.

http://markarayner.com/archives/368

New Story in Saucytooth's

A new story of mine, "Waiting For the Rain," is available on Saucytooth's Webthology alongside some of the most interesting authors writing today, including Forrest Aguirre, Steve Aylett, and V. Ulea.

http://www.crossingchaos.com/Saucytooth_Webthology.html

Sometimes. Fucking. Never.

Is one of those rare books I can't criticize so much as rave about. I'll admit, for the first time with a Crossing Chaos novel, I had a few doubt going into it. In general, I'm more interested in work that renovates form than work that destroys it--it didn't help that there was a Kenji Siratori quote on the back.

But God, was I fucking wrong.

Sometimes Never is one of the most stunning peices of avante-garde science fiction ever written. It's something like what you would get if you combined Kathy Acker, the aforementioned Kenji Siratori, and added some of the word-play from Finnegan's Wake alongside some serious philosophical/metaphysical dimension--then an aesthetic of cracking glass.

This is seriously one of the most exhilerating, impressive things I've ever read. Seriously. If I'd known what it was sooner (originally I didn't know there was an actual novel in there--in context, the first twenty pages of "noise" proves extremely effective, but I wouldn't want over a hundred pages of it), I would have bought it a long time ago.

Beyond this point, there isn't much that can be articulated; rather, it needs to be experienced. Embrace the noise. It is most certainly not empty.

My writing

I realized I haven't talked about it at all yet, so here's an update on the status of my current projects:

Sunshine In the Valley: Sixth novel. Metaphysical fantasy about a village surrounded by living walls. I sent this out to a few publishers until I realized I wasn't happy with the draft--my main idea was to convey an inconceivable time and place, and then I realized a few Americanisms had crept in. I'm going to get rid of them, tighten the structure a bit, and try again. It's the only of my recent novels in which the plot can be understood, though it's by far the most complex. At some point I'm going to write a sequel that has absolute nothing to do with it.

The Life, Times, and Tragedy of Edward William Locke the Third: Meta-text; examination of literary theory; postmodern chronicle; exercise in character study (in which nothing in learned); extremely surreal, with extensive influence from avante-garde theater; like I said, extremely surreal; treatise on history and time. I just finished it about a week ago, so the last chapters are in a really shitty draft right now, but I really like this. I've wanted to write this character for years now (without realizing it), and it felt really good finally to get the chance. Also, since it's technically historical fiction rather fantasy--or magical realism, I suppose--I'll have an easier time pitching it to literary publishers.

Absence: Still doesn't work quite right. Possibly it contains the best writing I've ever done, but I made the mistake of writing a mosiac novel (even though I hate mosaic novels). I thought it would be cute to write a novel (loosely) about the Christian that was completely devoid of Christian symbols but was instead full of ideas from philosophy, particularly Descartes and Spinoza. It has some really fucking cool ideas in it but a horrible treatment of homosexuality and revolution. I've tried writing around them until I finally relized I would have to write over them.

The Reawakening: is set to be rewritten as a short story six to ten thousand words long. It's gonna be fucking awesome.

Green Lights/Purity of Vision: Tentative title for novel number eight. It's going to be completely different from anything else I've ever done before--a contemporary novel about... life, with actual likable characters--though with an equal degree of formal innovation. I have a really cool structure in mind: all of divided into six to eight sections, each named after a color (with some colors repeating), in which the components of reality alter according to the color, with some characters getting taken out, others getting replaced completely, and some gigantic shifts in time and place. (Did I mention... surreal?)

I've also got quite a few short stories (and one experimental play) showing up in small publications in the next few months. I'll post links here when they come out. Then, of course, I have two stories in Quantum Genre On the Planet of the Arts--and next summer... Voices.

Michael Cisco: Outlining An Aesthetic Register

I've had an interesting relationship to the works of Michael Cisco. Originally I came across The Divinity Student on Amazon and thought it looked amazing--except that edition was out of print, and so I forgot about it. A few weeks later I found another reference to his work, checked out his website, and immediately bought every novel he'd written. This is a bad habit of mine (as my post concerning China Meiville probably conveys), but the results were much more positive than they often are. I spread my readings out over the space of a few months--completing The Divinity Student twice--and finally got around to the The Tyrant this week.

I can't help but be disappointed in the lack of criticism dedicated to Cisco--really, there isn't any, as most reviewers are so intimidated by the language they emphasize nothing but how different they are. I certainly wouldn't disagree with this, but I think they fail to identify even the most prominent aesthetic stratum on display--and when discussing Cisco, that means you haven't said anything at all. This isn't a conclusive essay in any sense--certainly, an informal one--but I hope to penetrate at least a bit within this territory.

Cisco is undoubtedly one of the foremost stylists within speculative fiction. His works feature horror overtones within a number fantastic contexts, leaning heavily towards the surreal. Based on the prominence of images in his work, and position within independent lit, I'd place him next to Zoran Zivkovic and Forrest Aguirre despite their dissimilarities (seriously... this has nothing to do with Leviathan--seriously), and perhaps make some yet more distant comparisons to M. John Harrison or Carlos Fuentes in Terra Nostra. Cisco seems to be extensively influenced be Burroughs (obviously I can't say for sure--anyway, this takes place within a framework of reapplication rather than imitation), particularly if he undertook a brief course in Faulknerian sentence structure....

Imaginative fiction, particularly the New Weird, is the literature of synthesis. Cisco embodies this more than any other author I've seen--and among them, he's probably the one I enjoy most. The Divinity Student and The Traitor are nearly masterpieces--his others noticeably less so, but I get the feeling he's yet to write his definitive piece. It seems like people only pay attention to The Divinity Student... hopefully at some point this will change, even if I'd agree in saying that, at this point, it's probably his best. (If they made a movie on it he could become the next Anthony Burgess....)

Cisco seems concerned primarily with phenomena beyond (perhaps beneath) the realm of articulation. Actions manifest as associations rather than definite psychological objects. Due to his punctuation schemata, the prose is like a sequence of iron bars, pulsing with electricity, featuring fairly consistent internal mechanics and a prominent sense of authorial disassociation, occasionally with a hint of a scientific tone. Possibly I'm taking my above theory too far, but this allows associations to be presented as they are experienced: indistinct within the greater perceptual unit.

Also, I'm going to try real quickly to dispel the notion of similarities between Cisco and Wolfe. I've read every novel by both (next to Delany, Wolfe is my favorite science fiction author, so I'm almost an authority on this). Although the two both feature a significant diversion from the conventions of speculative fiction, that's about as far as it goes.... The Divinity Student (a stoic male character) and the architecture of San Venificio recall The Book of the New Sun a little bit, but... not really, and the mechanics of their fiction are so disparate as to be nearly incompatible. Wolfe operates primarily upon a medium of omission, so that his novels are like majestic broken machines--conveying (as an intellectual construct, only after a greater sense of the pages has been obtained) the obscurity immediately apparent within the first page of any Cisco novel--and generally complex (note my abstract use of the term) in an entirely different manner.

On another note, as someone who never, ever reads horror, a number of the images in Cisco strike me as gaudy, even when their presentation is not... but the absence of a certain problem makes up for it entirely: Wolfe is a fairly serious right-winger (and it shows), whereas the undertones of nihilism, anarchism, and misanthropy that inform Cisco's work place him on the exact opposite side of the spectrum. Considering his chosen genre--in which these ideas are often decorative at best--its not surprising to find them here, and he does a decent job presenting them; but interestingly, they're featured in the protagonists.

Cisco's books almost present themselves as studies in isolation, portraying characters who are terminally cut off from society, their energy channeled into one or another occupations (excepting only The Golem, in which this becomes a journey): therefore, in a spiritual sense, his characters are all artists.... Not that you can blame him. Really, it's impossible to be an author producing admirable material (or really, an intellectual of any sort) without being a bit of a misanthrope--as well, we experience a similar sense of distance from the cities that populate these works.

Anyway, in conclusion, while his work isn't perfect (not that I pretend to be his perfect reader--like a said, I never read horror, and I'm only passably interested in darkness, be it visual, psychological, or metaphysical), Michael Cisco is undoubtedly one of the most interesting authors working in English right now. I am, of course, immediately biased towards anyone applying sophisticated styles to the fantastic--but you can't go wrong in checking him out, whether to expand your sense of language or to witness the extent imagination can be taken to.

Umberto Eco

has a fairly large brain. Still, I can't help wishing he dedicated more of the digressions to philosophy than history (or rather than history in particular, history that doesn't have to do with Christianity). Name Of the Rose has been just as good as I expected, but before reading it, I thought of picking up Baudolino, and that might have been the better pick, since I've heard it has a heftier touch of the imaginative about it. I misunderstood the topic a little bit before picking it up--not that is hasn't been fantastic so far (I'm about 200 pages in). Still, it's been very informative so far, and I've never before been convinced that Christianity and Western Europe were quite so poor a match as I am now; not to mention that Eco reads fairly well despite translation. There's even a character based on Borges, even if, for some reason, that character happens to be a close minded, fundamentalist Christian. At the very least, he has the voice of a prophet.

I originally decided to pick up Name Of the Rose (after putting it off for years) after hearing Delany discuss Eco in 1984.

Thomas Pynchon and Inherent Vice

This new book looks really, really bad. I'm going to pick it up the day it comes out and do nothing else until I've finished it--but still, I'm going into it with really low expectations. Going off what I've heard about it so far, that's the only safe choice (and did anytone read that excerpt that was available? that was NOT Pynchon).

That said, I'm still fairly excited. It's not everyday new Pynchon comes out. In the last forty years or so it's happened what... six or seven times? Especially after Against the Day (which was more of a post-Gravity's Rainbow masterpiece than I had ever allowed myself to hope for), I'm willing to forgive him about anything.

It's always possible he might be putting out another book in the next few years. In that big ten-year gap before Vineland, there's no telling how many projects he might have begun. (If Joyce is any indication, the stress if writing a masterpiece can be rather difficult--and Pynchon, of the two, has always been the one more inclined to sloth.) I'm figuring he probably worked most of them into Against the Day, but there might be a few left, right?

Ghost Hound: Something less than a gem

First, let's make something clear: Ghost Hound is not Lain. Despite having the same writer and director, it has nothing of the avante-garde about it, the framework is entirely linear, the characters are generic, and while it contains extensive meditations on psychology (similar to Lain, but without the tendency to the philosophical), the result are nothing but average.

The only thing it has going for it is some quality ambience and (a very few) images like the one posted above, but the result is overlong, bland, and average, average, average.

Thankfully, the same team is working on their fourth show, and that looks it should show some promise. We can only hope.

Gems from Japan

Sayonara Zesubou Sensei (translated: Goodbye, Mr. Despair) is one of the most fantastic examples of I'll call Japan's "hyper-comedy" genre. Obvious precursors are the works of Shinichi Watanabe (Excell Saga; Nerima Diakon; Puny Puny Poemy), Gainex's post-Evengalion comedies (Abenobashi; FLCL), Colorful (either written or directed by a guy who worked on such masterpeices as Serial Experiments Lain and Kino's Journey), and undoubtedly a few I've either forgotten or aren't aware of.

Ironically, despite its frantic animation (which can be quite stunning, juggling styles and moods with a new frame every few seconds), I noticed after a few episodes that the show actually has a rather straightforward script. This produces some interesting dynamics. There's always a lot going on, but primarily it takes the form of some extremely fast discourse on some or another cultural obsessions in Japan--some so obscure I'm not even sure what they're talking about.

Vintage satire doesn't really show up in anime very often (as odd is this sounds, it's actually rarer than metaphysics), so when it finally does, I'm glad the result is a purely Japanese show like this. It's not quite in tune with Takashi Murakami's superflat movement (a uniquely Japanese school of postmodernism), but it certainly shares a variety of Murakami's concerns.

Despite the lists I gave above, it's really nothing like any of those shows--certainly one of, if not the best comedies I've ever seen. It's consistently energetic, rigorously enjoyable, and notably intelligent. I can't think of anything else you could ask for in a comedy.

(For the record, I wouldn't be suprised if one or more names/titles were spelled wrong here. Definitely sorry for that.)

Why does Twin Peaks have to suck so much?

(I've decided to diversify this blog a bit, I'm going to try to cover film, anime, comics, television, music, philosophy, and some other cool stuff a bit more instead of just books--resulting in the present post, and most probably a few to come after.)

The truth, of course, is that Twin Peaks doesn't suck--or rather, that it shouldn't. It was the first show in the history of network television to attempt telling a sophisticated story, and certainly the first, maybe the only, to utilize surrealism. A show conceived by DAVID LYNCH (exlamation)! That resulted in fantastic images like the one pictured above. Not to mention that it was sometimes really funny.

The problem, of course, is that Lynch wrote only a single episode, and directed just a few (episode two, in which he did both, is absolutely fantastic). At some point in the second season he left the show entirely. I still enjoyed Kyle MacLachlan as Dale Cooper, but nearly enough to keep watching. Not only was the writing intolerably bad, the only thing worse was the acting; and from the beginning Angelo Baldalamenti--who was doing good work at the time, some of it with Lynch--had written a horrible, horrible score.

The resulting mess is harder to watch for how much promise it might have had. Really, it was never very good (certainly Lynch's worst next to Dune and Blue Velvet), but there are scenes in there (a few), to equal the best of his materiel.

Something cool

I just found out an I had an autographed book from Samuel R. Delany, one of my absolute favorite authors of all time--and it's been sitting on my shelf for two weeks without me knowing about it. When I opened it yesterday to start reading, I noticed there was some scribbling on the title page. Nothing out of the ordinary. Then I saw it was a signature, and I freaked. It's not actually to me, but I'm alright with that.

I bought it used off Amazon. I'm not sure why anyone would sell it. Admittedly, a signature from Delany is more a personal than a monetary thing, but still...

The book itself was 1984 (an obvious, obvious play off Orwell), a compilation of Delany's letters during that year, complete with a "prologue" and "epilogue" from the years before and after. As always, Delany is relentlessly intelligent and writes better than almost anyone else, about everything.

One thing that surprises me is that he could write this many letters during one year--the same year he was working on Stars In My Pocket Like Grains Of Sand, one of the Neveryon books, and probably something else I'm not aware of--even on the off-chance he didn't draft the original copies. He produced more than three hundred pages (in extremely small type on a relatively large page)--which is more than a lot of authors (particularly myself) manage anyway.

Some thoughts on Duane Locke and Yang Chu's Poems

Duane's Locke's poetic inclinations tend toward an individualism so complete he becomes a sort of isolated non-entity. He chooses to create a personalized bible, a singular kitsch, complete with mantra and vocabulary, whose only prophet is himself--only audience, himself--only object, himself.

The result: Yang Chu's Poems.

Even as an outside observer (meaning, of course, that I am not Duane Locke; that there can only be one Duane Locke; that Duane Locke is his own universe entirely) it is immediately apparent how this system of of belief is inseparable from the volume; just as it is inseparable from Duane Locke; and (we fall to a kind of equivalency principle, both encompassing and annulling) just as Duane Locke is inseparable from this volume.

I've heard Locke referred to as our finest living poet, and while this isn't necessarily true, he's certainly valid competition, and undoubtedly one of our finest living poets--I hesitate based only on the impossible nature of such a statement, and my own inadequacy in making it. There are poems in this volume eclipsing, or at least the equal, to anything I have ever read. These are frequent, rather than the exception.

If it has one flaw, it's that on occasion Locke becomes more interested in the composition of a representational text than a volume of poetry. When he writes poems, I can't think of anyone I'd rather read--but when this gives way to plainer verse with milder typographical innovation, concerned more with the continued, almost rhythmic presentation of his (already familiar) symbols and themes, this is somewhat less so. This has to take place because Locke's universe is also self-perpetuating, necessitating a routine fortification of its boundaries--but because we are not Duane Locke, the repetition of vocabulary has a somewhat lesser dynamic. I found myself interested less in the foundations of his belief than its product.

Would Yang Chu's Poems would be a better, crisper experience if perhaps thirty pages were removed? While I was initially inclined this way, in retrospect it becomes immediately apparent in to in order to contain the entity that is Duane Locke, every word must be there. To be whole, to Yang Chu's maintains the entirely of its discourse. The final result cannot be anything else. Anything else would not be Duane Locke.

--Some additional thoughts

I wrote this a while ago, and in the time since then, it's occurred to me that rather than composing a kind of immutable holy text, such the Koran, in which every word is absolutely unchangeable--something Locke, as an artist, can't possibly believe--Locke has chosen to develop an ultimate poetic "I" (through the illusory mask that is Yang Chu) which manifests as a sort of "anti-Whitman". Just as Leaves Of Grass accepts everything the world has to offer, Yang Chu's denounces it.


Available directly from the publisher here:

http://www.crossingchaos.com/Yang_Chus_Poems_by_Duame_Locke.html

Mark A. Lester's Five Star Pulp/Altered Ego

Currently, Five Star Comics (the independent output of Mark A. Lester, writer and illustrator), has two books available to the public. These are Five Star Pulp and Altered Ego, the result of much love, devotion, sweat, frustration, and suffering--and, sometime in the future, The Knight Wolf, a graphic novel featuring Morgan Stone, whose origin story is told here, as the first feature in Five Star Pulp.

Mark has said that he originally conceived this series to represent a sort of "total entity" for his creative output: a medium through which he can deal with any of many subjects that interests him. Like Dust, the other feature in this volume, it is highly aware of the pulp traditions from which it emerges, simultaneously paying tribute and refining. Both of these titles share a central interest in the nature of reality.

Five Star Pulp serves as a compelling introductory volume. In its current form, The Knight Wolf shows extensive promise. Of course, as an isolated origin story, it's somewhat less effective than Altered Ego (which also has a very amusing two page short at the end of Pulp), but rather, requires a longer volume, allowing Mark to elaborate upon this universe he's created--and, fortunately, we're going to get one.

Dust deals with somewhat similar themes, except on a cosmic level. The first few pages feature my favorite artwork in the book. I'm not aware of the future of this project, but it's extremely interesting as well.

Altered Ego is a lot of things at once. Most everything in it is funny. But it also offers a very serious, if somewhat disheartening, portrayal of "the artist's lifestyle", a gritty, cosmic accident that comes about as our society's lack of appreciation of art, as well as a witty meditation upon its own medium, chronicling the adventures of its own creator (who appears in delightful caricature, with really shiny glasses) who routinely inserts some extremely cleverer observations on the events at hand.

Based on its format, Altered Ego was originally written as a strip. Because of this, there's something clever at the end of most every line. My personal favorites are "The Knight Wolf" (a rather amusing allusion to his Morgan Stone series), in which, post inspirational speech, pencil in hand, the protagonist falls asleep without ever starting to draw (something that, indeed, he never gets around to, though he drinks lots of coffee); "The Secret Of My Success", a hilarious revelation concerning the tricks of the trade; and "Artsy Fartsy", probably the funniest in the book.

Also included is a dream sequence (with commentary) made up a sample of Mark's older work, featuring a very amusing talking cat.

Support independent comics and pick up your own copies here:

http://www.indyplanet.com/catalog/index.php?osCsid=c7b3c6c2858087e4d2daa9979dd55e06&cPath=36&sort=&filter_id=391

Or check out FiveStarComics.com for more information, galleries, or free reader copies--though really, it's much better to support independent comics.

China Mieville, Perdido Street Station, and Disappointment

I can't think of an author I've ever wanted to like more than China Mieville. After reading a description of his work, I immediately picked up a copy of Iron Council from the library, read it in the space of a few days, and hated it. At this point, I had already purchased copies of his other Bas Lag novels--and after a period of a few months, I finally started on Perdido Street Station.

Which only succeeded in disappointing me further. Despite Mieville's satisfactory prose and mildly impressive imagery, Perdido Street Station is unable to hide that it's little more than than a rather average monster flick with impressive production values. Meiville's powers of invention come off as theatric (in the hollywood sense) rather than artistic, and despite sparse moments of interest the too-long novel, in the end, was really just... normal.

This disappointment stems more than anything from the authors Mieville has been compared to--not to mention the tribute he pays to M. John Harrison and Mervyn Peake--many of who do constitute a significant variation upon genre fiction, including the two mentioned above, Harrison in particular, Michael Cisco and Jeff Vandermeer; others (unrelated but who acheive fantastic success) such as Murakami, Wolfe, or Delany; or authors coming in from the other side, such as Pynchon, Borges, Alasdair Gray, Carlos Fuentes, Umberto Eco, Salmon Rushdie, and Kathy Acker.

This explains Mieville's popularity, but while he does blend genres extensively and treat, it still feels... the same. I have the feeling I'll be undergoing a similar experience with George R.R. Martin and Harlan Ellison, but I have higher hopes for Zoran Zivkovic, Roberto Bolano, and possibly Norman Spinrad. Absolutely interested in suggestions for new reading material here.

Unfortunately, I still have a copy of The Scar stitting on my bookshelf. I'll probably read it someday, and I hope I like it, but based on the other Mieville I've read, I'm not looking forward to it.

Flaubert and Salammbo

Flaubert, prophet of the "new prose" which was to prove one of the most significant (and interesting) developments in twentieth century, is primarily known for Madam Bovary, a satirical look at the French rural lifestyle of the time--which, despite any of its virtues, manages only to be extremely, extremely boring. The same is true of Sentimental Education, to a lesser degree, though I find that novel quite a bit more interesting, and it came to me (indirectly) upon the rather lofty recommendation one Samuel R. Delany.

In Salammbo, finally Flaubert finds material worthy of his prose. I find that refreshing.

(The same is presumably true of The Temptation of Saint Anthony. One can only hope.)

Roger Zelazny

is neither the best, nor worse thing to happen to science fiction--but he's certainly closer to the first (though he fall far short of Delany, Wolfe, Harrison, Vandermeer, and all the other guys that I either can't remember or haven't read).

I recently finished Creatures Of Light and Darkness and I don't remember ever seeing so beautiful an example of an author with completely individual virtues. Zelazny has written a book completely devoid of human emotion. Rather, awe (in a new, stratified spectrum of incarnations) comes to replace everything we usually look for in fiction. Is there anything lost?

Not really.

Zelazny writes well (particularly for science fiction, and especially for science fiction forty years ago) and he has a fabulous imagination. Hardly a page goes by without featuring one or more displays of utterly unbelievable imagery. I read Lord of Light so long ago I'm not sure which I like better, but I appreciate the experimental undertones that take center stage here, and I've never read anything quite like it. I particularly enjoy that while the characters take themselves completely seriously, Zelazny does not.

Quick Meditations on first drafts

I had a really interesting experience with typos recently. After much bracing of fortitude, I typed an intro to an interview I did with the J.J. Steinfeld (who, for the record, was the delightfully cooperative, friendly, and gave some absolutely fascinating responses), felt really good about it, and sent it to my publisher--only to discover, a few hours later, that the intro had upwards of six or seven errors.

I made up a better version (which, still, is probably full of invisible errors, though I haven't found it yet), sent it--and noticed later that the message itself (one sentence) had a very obvious typo in it.

Of course, I haven't even touched on the monster that is the first draft. I belong to that majority of writers who produces decent material only by severe persistence... no matter that when that first draft is finished, I feel like Motzart in Amedeus. For a long time I felt really bad about this, until I read this excerpt on William Gass awhile ago--undoubtably one of the finest American stylists of all time. (Ironically, I picked it up off the wikipedia.

He says: "I write slowly because I write badly. I have to rewrite everything many, many times just to achieve mediocrity."

It was like therapy.

Of course, most of what I write here is sloppy, unedited, etc, so I guess I'll never learn.

On Borges On Joyce--a disagreement

By any standards, I would say that Borges had perhaps one of the most refined critical minds in existence, and I don't remember ever finding fault with his conclusions on any topic. But this line, from a fragment he did on Joyce (concerning Ulysses) has been running through my head for the last week or so, ever since I read it.

He says: "In Ulysses there are sentences, there are paragraphs, that are not inferior to Shakespeare or Sir Thomas Browne."

He meant it as praise, and initially I read it as one, but it just isn't true. Shakespeare and Browne were each some of the most fantastic authors to write in English... ever. I've only read bits and pieces of Browne, but I've read at least half of Shakespeare's collected work, and Hamlet four times in particular--ironically, once as supplementary material the second time I read Ulysses.

I think this should really be reversed. Of course, I realize I'm treading some highly subjective territory, but throughout Ulysses Joyce consistently proves himself the superior stylist, both in the quantity of exemplary passages (if we were to combine a hastily balanced sample, Hamlet, Julius Caesar, Macbeth, The Tempest, Henry V, The Merchant of Venice, King Lear, and a few others, and compiles our list of passages from those) as well as the quality thereof. Unfortunately, I don't have the background to validate this statement concerning Browne, but the samples I've read of his work still can't compare to Joyce.

I don't mean here to undervalue these artists (particularly Shakespeare, who I enjoy immensely), and they each have a variety of virtues that Joyce doesn't (particularly as an author who's virtues are entirely his own), but without a doubt, he is the superior stylist.

Icehouse/Thirteen Keys To Talmud Review

In an attempt to write a review outside the Hugh Fox cannon, I'll forgo a description of his past achievements—suffice to say that they are vast and very, very impressive. I read both of these novels a few weeks ago, and I've been struggling to articulate the experience ever since. To say the least, it's been difficult.

Icehouse is disturbing, funny, and (every so often) beautiful—but more than anything, pyrotechnic. Fox writes so well that language (out of context) can't possibly encompass his dynamics, or even represent it as an aesthetic object. His voice is recognizable, defined, and—most astounding of all—internally consistent. There are enough pop-culture references that it could be a Godard film.

Obviously, Burroughs comes to mind. Because Icehouse was originally written in 1963, four years after Naked Lunch, I find this comparison extremely important, maybe even essential—if Fox could be said to adhere to any literary archetype, this is the closest I can come. But while each share similar stylistic elements, rather than Burroughs's socio-political agenda, Fox is concerned with much more interesting issues of spirituality and metaphysics; and he writes just as well, if not better.

In the very loosest sense, the novella involves two characters living in... well... an icehouse. Hardly any of the sex is possible (and there is lots of sex) and characters masturbate obsessively—in one of my favorite episodes, utilizing a spear of ice, broom handle, garden hose, and toucan beak, to fantasies of Tarzan, George Raft, King Kong and Clark Gable. The icehouse is an oddly domesticated setting, at odds with everything that goes on there. At this point, a summary becomes
unnecessary: each read is too individual an experience to bother representing.

This brings me to Thirteen Keys to Talmud. In its own way, this novel is almost as significant as the first, for a variety of very different reasons. The first has to do with its most basic components. As an reader of science fiction, the chance to see an author of Fox's talent (sort of) take up the genre makes it something like a gift from god. Excepting Samuel Delany (who hasn't written actual science fiction in upwards of twenty years) and John Clute (in two isolated, fundamentally flawed novels), I'm not aware anyone who ever gave it prose like this.

The second is its abundance of ideas. Despite being rooted in Judaism, Fox touches an almost frightening number of theological and philosophical topics. It's somewhat like watching a film by Jodorowsky (Fox is willing to draw from anything and everything) if his themes were to go beyonds symbolism into the realm of articulation. Without exaggeration, I can say that a new concept (sometimes more than one) is introduced on every page. The very first paragraph paints a beautiful picture of perception, memory, and identity, and it only builds from there.

In comparison to Icehouse, Thirteen Keys almost approaches the linear—but, seeing as one has just emerged from that phenomenal book, this second takes on additional dimensions. It's certainly surreal; Fox has a powerful, powerful imagination, and he puts it to great use. Unlike Icehouse, it has a few noticeable flaws (sometimes the exposition tends to be a bit clunky, and the pulp influence gets a bit too heavy), but these are insignificant next to its resonance, erudition, and depth of invention.


Available directly from the publisher here:

http://www.crossingchaos.com/Icehouse_and_Thirteen_Keys_to_Talmud_by_Hugh_Fox.html

Borges the microchasm

This post was inspired by my recent reading of Penguin's editions of the collected Borges. I'm not sure what year they came out (and I don't care enough to check right now), but I can't help feeling they're some of the most important reissues... ever.

There are three in the series--the collected fictions, and selected non-fictions and poetry--each featuring humorous jacket blurbs proclaiming themselves more significant than the others. Before now, all this material was only available in very scattered additions; these new ones are beyond value. I haven't actually gotten around to the poetry yet (or finished the non-fiction--perhaps the most valuable of the three because more than half is only now available in translation), but the degree to which I understand someone I'd already considered one of my favorite authors (based only on my readings of Labyrinths and Ficciones) has grown exponentially, to the extent I feel I'd hardly read him at all.

Above and beyond being one of the most proficient thinkers ever, Borges is also the most interesting--and I can't help feeling that in a sense, despite being one of its most marginal writers, his works contain the whole of western literature within them.

Snail Review

This is a review I did awhile ago for one of the most unique, challenging, and beautiful books ever written.

http://www.kissthewitch.co.uk/seinundwerden/snail.html

Much thanks to V. Ulea for bringing this treasure into existence, and Crossing Chaos for printing it.

There are some books so good you can only be thankful they exist. This is one of them.

Inaugural post (mission statements)

I've been mulling the idea of a blog around for a while now. For a long time procrastination has kept it from happening, but I've finally decided to get around to it.

Mostly what you'll find here will involve literature, philosophy, film, music, possibly some dreams, unpublish(able?)ed short pieces, and I suppose anything else that crawls into my head whenever. I've been needing a home for all those uncollected pieces of non-fiction I tend to produce, and I guess this is it. Most every book to be released by Crossing Chaos will probably pop up at some time or another.

For the record, Variations (on phase) is the name of a hypoethetical collection of poetry and short-fiction I'll never get around to writing. I focus too much on my novels to ever really get around to working on it--which is fortunate, because if on the off-chance the world needs another such collection (which only the rarest of authors can pull off), I'm certainly not the one to write it. At least I can use the name to accomplish something, and I think it does a good job representing what I want to accomplish here.