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
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