The Relaxed Snowman & The Lost Balcony

EVEN DOGS COULD TALK by DF Lewis and David Price




I could remember more readily the books I once read as a child better than those I read only last week. Not that I read much these days. Characters don’t seem able to live any more, somehow. In those early days, even dogs could talk.

A case in point is the book I have in my hand. Talk about resonances. I can really believe it’s all happening, even now, as I hold its shuddering shape. Yes, happening between the covers, like moving from page to page as bookworms would.

It takes a lot of reading. You see, when I was a child, I found Rupert annuals difficult, especially those blocks of text at the foot of the strip which most other kids (or even nostalgic grown-ups) cannot be bothered to read through. The pictures, in primary colours (except for the tints of sky melting into each other), were enough for most of us, I guess. Or, at most, the little couplets of print beneath each box. But those horrible expanses of unbroken text, only the likes of me could skate over them as deeply as I did, making grooves amid the letters with my eyesight. And, now, today, I have this new book, one that the grown-up in me feels is the ultimate page-turner of a potboiler. It’s as if the dust-wrapper has a hold on my hands. Sucking at the pores.

I’ve managed to put it down, although the blurb did say it was unputdownable. It has much critical acclaim quoted on its back, some of which really goes over the top, like a landmark in popular literature and it’ll scare the pants off you and a book that can captivate souls sooner than the end of the first chapter and what’s in a plot, when it means so much? and there are characters that will move you more than you have ever been moved before and simultaneously nerve-shattering and

soporific with gently tidal dreams and many more such choice phrases which I cannot bear to repeat for fear of playing the book’s own game and foisting its cloying machinations of chutzpah and froth and heist and nerve and fanfare and hype upon the likes of you.

Well, there it sits, just like my favourite Enid Blyton or Biggles book from my barely memorable youth. It’s as static as the next book. As thick or thin as the most average hardback. As neatly stitched, glued and guillotined as the best of them. Only reading it does the damage. Simply seeing it or even daring to look at the printed words within without putting meanings to them cannot possibly give you more than eyestrain or outright boredom.

Still, in the old days, when I was young, Rupert and the Famous Five jumped out at me from under cover of the words that masqueraded as meaning. They lived and breathed and literally touched me. I followed the characters’ adventures, alongside them most of the times, but sometimes faster or slower so as to savour the action from in front or behind. They humoured me, of course, ignoring my presence, not even blinking an eyelid when I (rarely) intervened. They did not even talk about me, out of hearing of the omniscient writer who had created them on the page. Sometimes I became one of the characters, unnoticed, even by the reader. When I was the villain, though, that was the time to withdraw and leave the natural progression of the plot to unfold in camera.

Will draw you into a world you would not want to enter given the choice.

I shook my head. It was generating its own blurbs. I cringed to avoid its grippingness. The print was cut into the page with tiny blades, perfect perforations pulling me along in search of a whole thesaurus of trenchant treasure. A quest that Frodo wouldn’t have countenanced, given even Gandalf’s help.

So much sheer pleasure for the discerning and the bookish. A stunning stunt beating hype into a cocked hat. A self¬ perpetuating plot that uses its readers as bait to feed its protagonists. A tale that wags the dog.

The title of the book? MISCREANT IN MOONSTREAM are the words gold-tooled into the spine. I will not trouble you with the machinations of the plot, suffice it to say that I needed to get involved, for only by doing that could I get to the heart of the writer.

Speaks from the bottom of her heart.

Better than from the heart of her bottom, say I.

So I dressed in the clothes of a Victorian gentleman - frock coat, top hat; nothing less than the full bib and tucker -and settled into my most comfortable armchair. On the back of the dust cover, Dee F. Lewis smiled like a benign aunt. You’d certainly trust her to lead your children across the road ... ah, but whither will her mind lead you?

I flipped back to chapter 3 and stared at the words, waiting to be drawn into the action like a tree into a twister. Sometimes it would take a while, other times...

So I stared, waiting for my mind to translate words into actions and actions into events.

Beau Loches pulled up at the roadside, tired and cold after a three-day ride. The horse needed resting again, but the road sign signalled the climax of his journey:

AGRA ASKA -3 MILES

He took the flask out of his pocket, undid the top

and drank the last of my whiskey.

“Forward Old Codger,” I said, speaking more to myself than my steed. “Not much further. We’ll both have a roof over our heads tonight.” And I once again urged him on. A quest on request; this was nothing new. But I wasn’t getting any younger. Could this be my last adventure? Bounty hunting had been my life, the thrill of the chase exciting me to the core of my very being.

“Ah, but your being has become rotten to the heart!”

These words, uttered by a drunken whore in a tavern, had seen me taking stock of my life. Hence I was now doing something free of charge, ‘because it was the right thing to do’.

It was enough to make any self-respecting mercenary curl up and die of shame!

Flakes of snow had started to fall by the time I reached The John Bello Inn. Turning the horse over to the stable-lad -- with suitable remuneration for the grooming of the beast -- I entered the inn anticipating a good meal. After the coldness of the day the heat from the tavern’s fireplace nearly knocked me off my feet.

“By the stars it’s a cold one,” I said. “A meal’d be just what the apothecary ordered.”

I approached the bar and dropped a couple of gold coins before the inn-keeper, an elderly, stooped fellow of advancing years.

“A meal and a bed it is,” said he, scooping up the coins.

Retreating to a table with a goblet of wine, I took a paper and quill out of my travel-bag. To all intents and purposes I was an itinerant poet in search of inspiration. In a world of chaos, poets were virtually the peers of the realm. Within the hour I was shown to my room, tired, but happier after a square meal. As the inn-keeper closed the door, I opened my bag and took out the little green box I had been given at the start of this venture. Small, it would accommodate a man’s hand should he have the misfortune to lose one.

I held it, and looked at it...

...then I wasntt looking at all.

I was looking at the pages of MISCREANT IN MOONSTREAM, the plot temporarily lost.

Placing the book to one side, I went to make coffee. It was tempting to pour a little Bells into the brew, but a clear head was the order of the day. I was now well and truly caught in the web of the plot and, somehow, had a feeling I was going to enjoy every minute of it. Had I got to the heart of the writer, though? Maybe just to her head. Who was the narrator? It seemed to be a man. Old Codger, yes, only a man or his horse could be called an old codger. But Beau Loches may be a woman in disguise, unknown both to the reader (me) and to the writer (who according to the dust wrapper photo was indeed a woman), whilst the plot’s narrative ‘I’ (or eye) did indeed know where his or her own gender truly lay. The spurious period words such as ‘tavern’, ‘apothecary’, ‘inn-keeper’ were merely decoys from a truth that was beginning to hit nearer and nearer to home. I shuddered. The frissons here were not only in my own skin but in the feel of each foxed page of wrinkled paper.

Unaccountably, I grabbed my dog-eared atlas (the one I’d had at school with each ink-blot telling its own story) - and, this book of maps being well out of date concerning the world’s current political geography, I guess that, if MISCREANT’s temporal context was indeed as firmly in the past as the most primary of sources (rather than a latter day period piece tarted up to be just one more whore of lowest common denominator literature) then, surely, I’d find Agra Aska lurking somewhere, even if I had to search high and low for it.

The world then was larger than it is now. Darkest Africa was as mysterious and frightful as the furthest reaches of the tenable universe. Footpads crouched in the shadows. All smells were stenches, except in palaces where perfumes perhaps pervaded, even then. The moon cast uncanny beams for fairies and elves to dance between. Indeed, the moon was a living creature that caused rivulets of golden light to stream through the breeze-laden curtains and then upon my counterpane. Much bad yet to be discovered. Much bad yet to be done.

Beau Loches knew there was a human hand in the green box. But would it be a man’s or a woman’s or an indeterminate child’s? He shook it and felt the thud thud as the contents ricocheted even in that confined space. Space was confined, even with the world being larger. The world was larger but seemed smaller. And the astrological planets were the furthest he could imagine anything being beyond. He shook his head as thoughts lost control, praying for the steadying hand of some force that he called God whilst some others may have named it from within a different system of nomenclature. There was suddenly, without recourse to easy paragraphing, a loud knocking at his door. Ignoring it, then, he opened the box with a spinal creak which, strangely, books often make.

I heard the drunken whore again. This time she was in my head, not my heart.

“Beau,” she said, and, “Beau,” again.

A slap to the face sent me reeling back, eyes snapping open as the atlas fell to the floor. I was back at the tavern, the drunken whore standing before me.

“Impossible,” said I, “I haven’t got the book.”

“True,” said she, “but the plot, like the soup, thickens.”

Strange it was to be confronted by this raven-haired amazon in a flowing red gown. I had not entered this scenario of my own free will.

“Beau...”

“Not Beau, madam ... I shall assume this traveller’s identity when I’m good and ready.”

Hands on hips, she threw her head back and laughed.

“Think you’ve got a say in the matter, do you? The plot is up and running. Now pick up your bag, we must away,” and she leaned against the door with folded arms. Realising that she’d brook no further argument, I seized my possessions and followed her out into the night. Was she the narrator or the omniscient story-teller? Did the words flow from her mouth or her pen?

Out on the snow-covered street she clapped her hands, as if in command, and my faithful steed trotted out to greet us.

“Do they call you doctor Doolittle, by any chance?” I asked.

“Not in this book.”

At that moment a crack of thunder rent the night, shaking the ground and kicking up clumps of snow.

“What the .. ?”

And the world seemed to break apart, a huge chasm opening up just yards from where we stood. Smoke began rising out of the maw, a dark mist at first, but swirling ever faster and ever darker, rising above Agra Aska like a steaming Olympus. And as I looked at that towering behemoth, a form began to take shape; a torso, I thought, and a head. Then a Daemon’s horns seemed to burgeon from that head. This was madness, illusion ... but then glowing red eyes appeared!

“The box, Beau, open the box.”

I obeyed, not taking my eyes from that mountain-sized Daemon. Springing the lid, I glanced inside. Two bands, I thought, but curiously misshapen. I nearly dropped the box in fright when they started flapping like broken butterfly wings. Indeed, as they rose out of the box, I realised that they were wings. Wings with ribs like webbed fingers. Flittering across the ground, they attached themselves to Old Codger’s legs. In a second he was transformed from a tired old mare into a magnificent stallion, white and powerful.

“Jump on,” he shouted, “We must go.”

And at this, I really was taken aback.

“You spoke,” I cried.

“In these days, even dogs could talk,” he replied.

The raven-haired one leapt on his back and I did the same, almost as though caught in her wake. Old Codger leapt forward ... then soared into the air like a bird. I was aware of the Smoke-Daemon billowing towards us and I closed my eyes as the choking cloud engulfed us. But smoke was all that assailed us, and Old Codger was soon clear of that.

I stole a glance behind and saw that the smoke was drifting harmlessly away. In anticipation of a dissipation, I turned back to my companion.

“An excellent trick. Where to now?”

“Onward,” she replied. “There’ll be more substantial Daemons after us now. We must head for Heartland. Old Codger knows the way.”

Below us, a miniature landscape hurtled by. Arms tight about the lady’s waist, I started to relax. These terrors were but words on a page. I assured myself no harm could come of such purple prose.

In minutes we were flying towards Heartland; indeed, I could not mistake it, for it was a fantastic hamlet of golden cottages atop a plinth of rock - shaped, not surprisingly, like a heart.

“Heartland,” Old Codger needlessly remarked, and began a swift descent upon those glowing denizens.

I recalled the old Rupert books with superfluous text. Surely the same mistake wasn‘t being made here. I tried to visualise the rest, rather than depend on some more dry old words from the wizened crone that lived inside a rather smart and benign looking lady called Dee F. Lewis or into which selfsame crone Dee F. Lewis herself may soon grow by dint of the ravages of age. My actual eyesight scored gooves into the panoply before me as the shining heartlanders stumbled acoss the furrows thus caused. I was destroying their peaceful haven with the carelessness of imperfect narration Oh, My God! I was powerless to act, to bend the pen the ways I wanted…

The funnelling Daemon trod the thermals of my imagination as if they were its own. The vast pulsing twister - having turned bruised and blackened with the choking soot that constituted it - churned through the flailing limbs of the best and most rounded people I had ever managed to create. All my previous exercises had, by comparison, been tantamount to cutting out cardboard characters from cereal boxes with childhood’s blunt-ended scissors.

These sweet-souled heartlanders, then, screeched and blistered as they stumbled further into the deepening troughs my vision could do nothing now to make more shallow. My were-horse, too, trotted free in an orgy of stampeding and brainstorming, forgetting it was once my dear Old Codger - now, not even neighing or braying as a good wholesome, if wild, steed would have done in the natural course of events, but barking inarticulately like a rabid mongrel, then thunderously baying as if a hound from hell.

I crammed my ears with fists.

Terrified, I then tugged my pants down to prove some point I could no longer fathom. Or was it merely to see if my hindlegs were sprouting a devilish pelt or mane?

Omniscience is escaping like liquid words into a river of impossible dreams...

I then squeezed my eyelids so that I could only see the tentacles and floaters that ever lived within the optic juices. And my two hands began to flail of their own free will. Unputdownable hands. Struggling to strangle the first whore’s neck they could find...

In many ways, I had imagined death to be simultaneously nerve-shattering and soporific with gently tidal dreams. In reality, thank goodness, it was more a gentling down, gentling down of my rabid heart. I could hear a little boy’s flute and I knew I had returned whence I came: twilit Agra Aska. I watched five children playing at being smugglers. One gingerly carried a green box of what 1 guessed would be childhood’s treaures. Another wielded a huge school atlas. Somehow 1 knew these children’s names: Julian, Dick, Anne, George and Timothy the dog

I shook my head. The book was not only generating its own blurbs but also its own happy ending.

Agra Aska’s river - which colourful royal barges, fresh back from a victorious war, plied - flowed like a moonstream. I gently gazed into the heartland of its waters

and saw the miscreant reader.

The stable was full, so they had to stay in the inn. I was the innkeeper. Because of the current economic conditions, there had been fewer and fewer guests who could afford the bedrooms - so they made do with the stable stalls, covering themselves in straw for the sake of warmth. So, when some dogs and horses and geese and so forth arrived, they automatically trooped into the empty inn - a long line of them and I hadn't yet seen whoever was herding them along from behind so as to ask him or her for wherewithal. It was only after they took off their costumes that I realised they were human beings like me and they told me they would have preferred staying in the stable, but they would make do with the bedrooms. As they were all now in human shape, I could not tell which one of them had been herding them or simply in charge. The costumes had been piled up in the inn's foyer area and I noticed that the various skins and furs had no openings so as to get in or out of them. No ties to join edge with edge. Not even any air-holes to breathe through or grilles to look through. The eyeballs were opaque. The mouths were closed lip to lip without joins. I decided to stay in the stable myself: I knew its geography better than anyone, being its owner. You see, I didn't want to rub shoulders with any creatures that could climb in and out of such impossible costumes. In the stable, I snuggled close to one of the lambs - as body warmth was the only safeguard against the icy night. A large dog, in turn, snuggled up to me. A cow up to him - until the whole stable was an endlessness of such items of body warmth, with me the only human representative. Someone must have been dreaming us with no ties, no joins, not even any dreams of our own, except a single dream merging several dreams that none of us dreamed:

Within the inn itself, only the costumes breathed. Those in the bedrooms spent their own last breaths in one single snore of sound that shook the ground - winding into and out of each other, doorway by doorway, along all the shining corridors, twisting and twirling into a snake yearning to swallow itself. Or tying itself into several knots. Eventually, there was silence. Just a star above the stable, almost as big as the moon. Indeed, it may have been the moon itself like a yellow swollen balloon. And God pulled it back into His darkness, using the only tie that existed.

Written as the speed writing exercise last night at the Clacton Writers' Group.

Extract below from my Real-Time Review of DADA0ISM (Chômu Press):

11 ‘Testing Spark’, by Daniel Mills
“A world in readiness: all awaits the Tester’s Spark, the nudge of the First Mover.”
[Today* happens to be the very day when the Olympic flame (the 2012 Olympic Torch shown on the left) officially passes from the hands of the Greeks to the 'London 2012' group (how ironic bearing in mind the cataclysmic repercussions of the catastrophic Greek Politics at the moment and our fears in UK of financial contagion!)] This story has this essence of a torch-bearing, flame-transferring trope mingled with, I guess, religious Eucharist wafers within a ’Machine Stops’ (EM Forster’s 1909 Internet story) type ’factory’ scenario where the Web moves “vers la flamme” (the title of a piece of music by one of my favourite composers, Scriabin (explicitly mentioned in this story by name), whose music I have loved more than most other music for many years). As well as the unrequited love aspect that is in tune with the rest of this book, this story harvests some of the music-steeped cosmotechniks of the Isis story while being briefly seasoned with Lovecraft references. The story also stands wonderfully on its own as a work I shall need to re-read in the future to ensure I have fully understood its vision. “He returns to his workstation and settles into his chair. He glances at the computer clock.” (16 May 12 – 7.00pm bst)

*In fact, the actual ceremony is today in Greece where David Beckham, Boris Johnson, the Princess Royal et al collect the Greek flame and, via torches that look like the design of words on this book’s cover, bring it back to us in the UK – without there being any quarantine for the flame whatsoever, I note! [ I also confirm, as is stated on Wikipedia, that I was instrumental in forming the Zeroist Group at Lancaster University in 1967 (for which group a University grant was received). One of the group's manifesto aims was a sort of belief regarding Dadaism, i.e. bringing Art back to zero or 0 - and starting off in an unknown new direction. O the idealism of youth!] (17 May 12 – 7.45 am bst)

As those who have read my previous real-time reviews already know, I try to pay no prior attention to anything published outside of the book’s fiction itself – but I often do pay attention to the shape and style of the book itself while conducting any review, and some of the themes in this very book point to that importance. You will be reading a different ‘book’ if you read an ebook version of it, in other words. That’s not a value judgement comparing the two formats, merely a fact to be taken into account according to your individual tastes. For example, I couldn’t help noticing in my email in-box that a recent Chomu announcement referrred to this book as a ‘butterfly’. Could the front cover be intended as the huge wings of a butterfly rather than the ‘concrete poem’ (cf the book’s flesh poems) or the Olympic torch ideas that I had been toying with? And that brings me back to the Intentional Fallacy (something I’ve been interested in since the 1960s)… (18 May 12 – 7.45 am bst)

Labels: chomu press, Dadaoism

10 ‘Body Poem’, by Peter Gilbert “Sometimes he recalled it as being Rebecca, other times as Elizabeth, Betsy, or even Brenda. Such details were unimportant,…”  …like Coraline and Collette earlier in their own nemonymous nights…? Indeed, this inspiringly substantive story about Paul Obern – a poet of poems writ on or in flesh [cf: an obliquely or vaguely collaborative connective work of mine published in the past] – seems to radiate many overlapping themes that preoccupy me over the years.  One example is Wimsatt’s Intentional Fallacy, with considerations of what is valid in Aesthetic judgement derivable from an artists’s autobiography and inferred from any biographical backstory, say, of sexual exploits (here germane to the very production of the art itself as ‘borne’ (obern) upon bodies!). This comes to the stunning eventuality of the art itself escaping and selling itself!  And, also, the artist trying to make himself feel depressed, so as to fit the image of the depressive artist!  A second example is digitisation, ebooks and “e-mail“  (obern = e-born): and the image evoked of text as living in its medium (each medium massaging a new meaning or message): here flesh rather than ether or paper. Digital – dig it? Digging sometimes to hurtful degrees. At least with ebooks one can blow up the print for poor eyesight. Obern once had “to write as small as possible” for which “a magnifying glass is required.” And this book’s text, meantime, saps any diminishing residues along my own optic fuse. Anyway, Obern’s ‘autobiography’ is akin to the development of Allan’s timepiece writer earlier and the grandparental influence upon her etc. Peter Gilbert’s work is an enjoyably thought-provoking, skin-pricking story. [Also: compare Marc Laidlaw's Diane Arbus Suicide Portfolio with Gilbert's Diane Aquino?] ”As Lucinda Obern became more and more fascinated with blank space…“: or reaching out for a “Dada“ism to wrap around a cone zero…? And, btw, my real-time reviews are already legendary, not simply ‘almost legendary’. : ) (16 May 12 – 1.20 pm bst) From: http://conezero.wordpress.com/117-2/

Reggie Oliver invents 'Eschairtology' as a variant of 'Eschatology' here: http://nullimmortalis.wordpress.com/2012/05/12/dadaoism-a-new-anthology-from-chomu-press/

Labels: chomu press, Dadaoism, Reggie Oliver

Page 154 – 178

“…vomited his supper into the hole the Covenant Man had been digging with his bootheel. / “‘There!’ the man in the black cloak said in a tone of hearty self-congratulation. ‘I thought that might come in handy.’”

Like King himself often idly digging holes for our sick. Even Ironwoods can think, I hear. And like the Gods’ water-surface in Jason & The Argonauts – or, if I recall correctly, like an earlier Dark Tower hag’s water-surface - that in the Man’s basin bears unbearable visions of what may or may not be happening on the ‘internet’ of Tim’s maternal scrying and crying. And not a Dragon-kill after all but a body-corse beneath the paternal mirror like Millais’ Ophelia? The Man in a Black Suit by another Stephen King as the Covenant Man, where I once foretold this part of the story via another real-time review? “Tim watched the bugs eating each other, revolted but fascinated. Would they go on until only one – the strongest – was left.” Weirdmonger or King in that black cloak? Not the King and Oy, but the King and I, at last. (4 May 12 – 3.25 pm bst)

Extract from my Real-Time Review of the whole book HERE

An extract from my review HERE.

“‘When I go to Parliament,’ said Jenny, ‘I’ll abolish clouds. And I’ll live on cakes and peanuts! And when I’m full, I’ll jump up and down until I’m sick and start eating again!‘”

The older I get, the odder. But never as creatively and constructively and dyslogically odd as Rhys Hughes or, at least, Rhys Hughes’ work. This is genuinely one of his greater pieces (and quite different from, if the same as, most of the other works I’ve read of his); good job! It takes up about 30 pages of this Journal. Worth every page. It starts off with Jenny as a wonderful new take on Jane Turpin (by Evadne Price), a young girl version of Richmal Crompton’s ‘Just William’, but better. And it evolves into a major satiric, Lewis-Carrollian ironic-fantasy: absurdist, hootingly funny, with at least half serious undercurrents about Parliament and voting, and power, and monarchy, and the Middle Class, and Machiavelli: with so many wonderful new Rhys-Hughesian conceits: eg: Alky / Alchemist, Jingo /Bingo, buying years for the amount of their numerical ‘name’: with all manner of larger-than-life characters and references like the one to the Guy who tried to blow up Parliament: and Whovian statue-blinks, Whovian mayhem in Westminster, slime things underground etc. Even a version of Facebook for Dictators. And much much more. The prose is plain and short-paragraphed (not usually to my taste), but the ideas scintillate. And it’s thought-provoking, too, if you have any thoughts to be provoked. It even has childish conceits, to go with the more clever ones, like not finding any kangaroos in a kangaroo court. And the ending is not bathetic. It’s almost touching.

Labels: bfs journal, jenny khan, rhys hughes

A reprise of John Magwitch's discovery of a possible cannibalism theme in Robert Aickman's stories. NB: in the comments to the blog link below, I discovered that the Magwitch character showed cannibalistic tendencies in Great Expectations!
http://nullimmortalis.wordpress.com/2010/11/12/john-magwitchs-thesis-on-robert-aickman-cannibalism/

Labels: cannibalism, great expectations, growing boys, inner room, magwitch, robert aickman

I think it was hidden by trees till a dose of tree surgery recently.

Having stumbled upon it yesterday, here is Jeff VanderMeer's interesting ‘speech’ published in ‘Nemonymous Two’ (2002) about his story “Mansions of the Moon” being accepted for ’Nemonymous One’ (2001) under its terms of late-labelling:

"I submitted to 'Nemonymous' under a female pseudonym from a fake hotmail account. I took great care to alter my 'speech' in accompanying emails and I believe the editor was fooled until he sent his acceptance and I told him. This sense of play in itself gave me great pleasure. Whole experience of having my work read anonymously and accepted anonymously was pleasurable. I've enjoyed even more the reactions of people on various messageboards as to the identity of 'Mansions of the Moon''s author. I think when you take the personalities away, especially within genre, where everyone knows everyone, it allows for an objectivity otherwise lacking. It allows readers to see my work as a whole in a new light, based on 'Mansions', and it allows the reading experience to be somehow more innocent and pure. You also find you don't know as much about other writers' styles as you thought. I guessed wrong on several of them. Finally, the design of 'Nemonymous' fits the graceful simplicity of its concept to a tee. In short, I have enjoyed the entire experience.
"My latest book is 'City of Saints & Madmen', available in trade paperback from Cosmos and hardcover (with lots of new material) from Prime. I am a member of Storyville."

Labels: jeff vandermeer, late-labelling, mansions of the moon, nemonymous

Extract from my real-time review HERE.



From “The one notable exception” to “Even the ones you supposedly loved.”
“…playing out your endless power games, that you managed to trample everyone else.”
This is one Hell of a book. Teasing me just as vigorously as I am teasing it. Or teasing him, that Lewis bloke playing the ‘endless power games’. Now incrementally an authority figure (following a Mayoral election plotted in the Chestnut Garden (cf David Cameron’s Rose Garden appearance with Nick Clegg), an election, no doubt, similar to the very strange Mayoral election going on at this very moment between Ken Livingstone & Boris Johnson in an increasingly Olymp-mythic London), not black and/or white (literally as well as figuratively), allowing us to be embroiled in creating Paul Dent the new Winston Smith: who is in fact, obversely, creating us in return? Lewis and Paul: symbiotic? But who the host and who the parasite in such a (mis-)synergy? And a Revolution: an essential miscegenate Revolution from the ultimate role-playing about the American Civil War in artistic Struwwelpeter-Screwpine retrospect for which only reading the previous Hirshberg books that I’ve recently experienced for the first time can fully prepare you. All of this, for me, ties in very well with things in my long on-going philosophy (things, as a Hawler, I’ve often droned on about on-line for many years) about ‘Fiction as Religion’ and ‘”Magic Fiction” as opposed to Magic Realism’ and the ‘Synchronised Shards of Random Truth and Fiction’, and ‘Hawling’ (cf the pulley depot in the Bunk book earlier) and 'Nemonymity' etc etc (please google these terms, if you wish.) This is a major event for me, my reading this book. As it will be for you, I hope, even without the need for you to philosophise about its Creative Aesthetics! It is a SF Fantasy masquerading as a Literary Masterpiece of an Alternate World skewed Mainstream in turn masquerading as Zola-esque Naturalism as if written by Scott Fitzgerald! But we’re not finished yet. Things could still change. (7 Apr 12 – 9.40 am bst)

Extract from my real-time review of 'The Book of Bunk' by Glen Hirshberg HERE.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

From “I don’t know the beginning” to “‘Nothing here is really yours.’”

“‘So I just decided you might ought to put this place in your tourbook. Even if it’s not really a place anymore. Just in case one day … I don’t know.’”

And at Screwpine we reach some major plot hub that is susceptible, no doubt, to despoiling-by-review. Which I don’t intend to do. Suffice to say that, although I have been on various audit-trails with my Hirshberg reading-orgy of the last few weeks, I think I have reached a goal that somehow I knew I would reach: “‘A real Reconstruction.’” Not a parallel world. Not a Paul Dent, our protagonist, as Winston Smith, not even as a Big Brother manqué or some Wizard of Oz behind the controls, but certainly as a force even more powerful perhaps than the Lewis figure who dogs him. This Screwpine ‘hub’ and its ‘story’ seems to be a stunning geomantic vision that effectively stems from all the ‘points’ and inter-connections that each reader should discover for him- or herself heretofore, i.e. a different set of such spokes of the millwell-wheel for each reader, but always reaching some significant hub where we all arrive eventually in some Lost-type base with contraptions to tweak and dormitories of bunk-beds. And the possible arrival of a ‘Key’ writing-figure as an even bigger catalyst than any of us? The only way, perhaps, indeed, to review or simply discuss this ”Book of Bunk” is by some method of real-time mini-reviews written and imparted whenever we ‘choose’ breaks for sectioning or triangulating the text by the ‘Godgiven’ foibles and accidents of life and by the time-spans available for our creative reading amid all those other pressures of existence. We all do this naturally when reading any book but do we then cohere the cumulative piecemeal reactions that we find ourselves feeling? Do we aim for a single sweeping review after we’ve finished the book or for something far more special that only special books can summon or instil in us even beyond our own perceived ability to achieve? I hereby inaugurate, at this junction of the tracks, the Global Real-Time Reviewing Project. More of this later. Meanwhile, of course, I may not have reached this book’s ‘hub’ at all, having so far only read about 60% of the text. I do wish ebooks had page numbers! (6 Apr 12 – 4.35 pm bst)

‘zeroism, egnisomicon, egnisism’ in conjunction with PF Jeffery (1967), ‘whofage’ in conjunction with PF Jeffery (1973), ‘agra aska’ (1983), ‘weirdmonger’ (1988), use of ‘brainwright’ in modern times (1990), Salustrade (1992) use of ‘yesterfang’ in modern times (1997), ‘wordhunger’ (1999), ‘nemonymous, ‘nemonymity’, late-labelling, veils-&-piques’ (2001), ‘denemonise’ (2002), ‘megazanthus’, ‘weirdonymous’, ‘chasing the noumenon’ (2003), ‘wordonymous’, ‘wordominous’, ‘the-ominous-imagination’, revelling in vulnerability (2004), ‘a woven fire-wall of words’, ‘the synchronised shards of random truth and fiction’, ‘nemoguity’, ‘vexed texture of text’, ‘fictipathy’, ‘nemotion’, ‘the hawler’, ‘the angel megazanthus’, ‘klaxon city’, ‘horrorism’ when used as a word for the philosophy of horror fiction (2005), ‘publication-on-reading’, ‘antipodal angst’, ‘the tenacity of feathers’, ‘a writer’s mandala’, ‘wordy weird’, ‘nemophilia / nemophobia’, ‘magic fiction’ as the obverse of the more common expression ‘magic realism’, ‘weirdtongue’ as the ‘name’ of a language, ‘Glistenberry’ as an alternative name for ‘Glastonbury’, ‘tonguage’ as a ‘conscious’ language, ‘yester-eggs’ as a term for Proustian ‘selves’, ‘the parthenogenesis of reality from artifice’, ‘all is for the pest in the pest of all worlds’, ‘Baffles’ as fables with muffled morals (2006), ‘fanblade fable’, ‘abutting the if’, ‘word clones / word clowns’, ‘bumps for books’, ‘rite of review’, ‘cone zero’, ‘a basket of coinages’ (2007), ‘small press cover ark(ive), the baser pulps’ ‘orrorfaces’, ‘the wheel culture’, ‘netogenic’, the first fiction about a ‘drogulus’, ‘Innerskull’, ‘meganthus‘ (2008), ‘CERN Zoo’ in literature, ‘Real-Time Reviewing‘, ‘ligottum‘, ‘the pit and the pessimum‘, ‘ligottus‘, ‘fubbcuckle’, ‘extraneity creep’, ‘pillowghost’, ‘intowards’, ‘powderghost’, ‘nightmare’s moat’ (2009), ‘THE TENSES’, ‘scream munch’ as another word for ‘captcha’, ‘skight’ – threepenny bit, ‘invitations from within’, ‘novellatory’, ’Ress’, ‘Venn Dreams’, ‘Tearsheet Doll’, scanbuncle, A Götterdämmerung of Guts , Holistic Horror (2010), SFtopia, Salustraders / Overspacers, Novellarette, Inquel, Gaddafery, Jungian autonymity, sudracide, an impesto novel, trendbaffler, our planet as reliquary, fictionatronics, Lovecraftianisation, “To know the worst is also to know the best“, vignellarette, “Nothing is controlled by logic other than logic itself.”, nightgators, Horror Genreators, dicksplay, roman littoral, ghostalt, poltergeistalt, horrasy, Horrasy: The Horrastic and the Heuristic, srednibution, srednidipity, Lovecraftian indescriptivities, bememorise, alephantiasis, reva-menders, metapomorphic, rarifiction, neoloquism, Was the God Particle born instable? (2011), angelivalent, literal-meaning dreaming, the ‘Higgs boson’ of Horror, The Weirdonomicon, Aickmania, shortcomings harnessed are stronger than strengths unused, privacy-trawler, disarming strangeness in connection with Robert Aickman, Fiction is like currency: belief is everything, oblique concomitant / oblique contaminant, age at the edge, A writer should make clouds shine even if the world’s sun has gone, The Call of the Silly. (2012).

Interesting take by one of my favourite writers – Christopher Priest – on the Clarke Award short list. (My novel ‘Nemonymous Night’ was on the original list of sixty): http://www.christopher-priest.co.uk/journal/1077/hull-0-scunthorpe-3/

Thinking about it further on a personal level: I’d be happy with any resultant shortlist if I thought all those creating the shortlist had read thoroughly the sixty novels on the original long list. Mr Priest, too, when criticising the short list.
As to ‘Nemonymous Night’ – this is Jules Vernian-SF – and I’d be happy if it had several fair but bad reviews. Then I’d know where it stood. No fault of anyone, but it has only had a few reviews: (linked from here: http://nemonymousnight.wordpress.com/reviews/ for reference), the first being a 5 star Amazon review from a respected Amazon reviewer. One of the others was tentative at worst, the other three fairly enthusiastic at best.
But very few people seem to have actually read it. I hope I’m not tempting fate, but, with this comment, I hereby encourage into the public domain all those fair but bad reviews harbouring in readers’ or critics’ hearts, rather than just a handful of fairly good reviews it has received so far.
Revie(w)’s Leeds United 0 Colchester United 4.
Meanwhile, I admire Priest’s Hull/Scunthorpe article. I know he didn’t write it for this reason; but his work is a league above all of us.
My own take on his ‘The Islanders’ last September:
http://nullimmortalis.wordpress.com/2011/09/24/the-lslanders-by-christopher-priest/

‘Admiration’ at the overall article is however not the same as agreement with the caricatural mini-reviews embodied in the article.

Earth Cry (Sculthorpe):

Labels: christopher priest, clarke award, earth cry, hull, peter sculthorpe, scunthorpe

Extract from my real-time review of a Glen Hirshberg book HERE.
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I Am Coming To Live in Your Mouth

“We’ve been coming here a month. I’ve never seen anyone fight like you do.”

An enormously powerful treatment of terminal illness, as Kagome and others care for Joe who has for many years been riding the hoped-for remissions towards an inevitable riddling death: a sense of crossword and other word puzzles or computer games as part of the tumours’ horrendous ’riddling’ of his body, too, perhaps. I don’t want to give the impression however that this story is not an entirely serious nocturne of pain, despite there being, just as one example, a retrocausal form of the ’Constantinople/ It’ joke together with the weaknesses of the carers (Joe’s wife Kagome, mother, cat, Hospice workers who visit and friend Ryan (and his strangely apt connection with playing a”ukulele” and as a useful Scrabble word)) – their weaknesses and strengths. “But why did Americans always focus on the death part? What else did they imagine angels were for?” And the central image of fighting back against cancer is here portrayed as a ghost or role-play character of haunting shuddering strength… we are never sure, and I’m not going to spoil things by trying to make things clearer in this ‘review’. Suffice to say, this is yet another Hirshberg fiction that has affected me deeply. Truly deeply. And Kagome: OK, Game? We’re never sure how far we can go in such circumstances. Or let go. “…then froze as the START NEW GAME? message appeared.” (25 Mar 12 (today being my father’s birthday – who died of MND in 2007 after a long battle): 10.55 am BST, i.e. now no longer GMT)

Labels: glen hirshberg, janus tree, subterranean press

I shall go out on a limb: I have read much Rhys Hughes fiction since the early 1990s and, despite most of it, if not all, being brilliant stuff, I genuinely believe the SANGRIA IN THE SANGRAAL book to be the best organically thought-provoking and mind-expanding whole. Fabulous with brazen wit and sparkle: also implicitly gentle and meditative and self-traducing. Making clouds shine even if the world’s sun is hidden.

My real-time review here: http://nullimmortalis.wordpress.com/2012/03/16/sangria-in-the-sangraal/

Labels: ex occidente press, rhys hughes

An amazing serendipity:

An extract from my real-time review of the 'UNBECOMING' collection HERE in March 2009;  the bold is placed on the old text today in March 2012.

(18/3/09 – 4 hours later) Rare Promise - Mike O'Driscoll
Indeed this story holds a rare promise that, even if one tries to surrender its words, they will keep coming back. It is a deeply word-textured Lawrencian symphony of non-urban emotions revealing a bottomless melting-pot of adolescent friendships altered by sex and jealousy, raw or religious guilt and shame, dark almost mythic memories of the “susurrations that slip between sounds”, self versus self through time, the secrecy of imperious fate … and this story does not surrender you the reader not only as a fiction-force-in-itself but because of what has gone before it in this book. In this story, a Confessional that is almost an answering-machine where the demon answerer eventually jumps out at the caller when the ‘conversation’ is abruptly slammed down! The sanctity of silence. The almost Modern Art that this story becomes as a series of blended cuttings of self ‘copy’. The losing of innocence by paradoxically gaining it. Becoming and Unbecoming. I cannot of course do justice to something I fail to absorb completely in one sitting. It may one day teach me to understand when I’m dragged back to it. It will never surrender me finally to the ‘call’ of other books, I’m sure. But – who knows? – it may be the passion of a moment. Only time will tell. The story’s author may jump out of it and drag me back. Not its real head-lease author named on the spine but the story’s demon second-rung author-as-reader calling me to read it all over again so that I can make final penance for not hurting enough the first time. Hurt is only real hurt when it happens time and time again for eternity.
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Extract from my real-time review of 'Wild Justice' edited by Ellen Datlow HERE (March 2012):

Rare Promise – M. M. O’Driscoll

“…sketching in the blanks…” — “His turn to enter the box…” — “Truth hides in a secret place…” — “…but there’s no escape in imagination.” — “engine-foaming sea…”

[This is the only story in 'Wild Justice' that I have read before. Above is my quite lengthy real-time review of this story in March 2009 when I reviewed the whole of Mike O'Driscoll's collection 'Unbecoming' (2006). Mike also has a story in 'Nemonymous One' (2001): arguably about Stephen King's 'accident'. And he has a story in 'The Horror Anthology of Horror Anthologies' (2011), a story that actually mentions the editor of 'Wild Justice' by name, which I real-time review here.]

My old review of this story above still stands. But I have just re-read ‘Rare Promise’: as well as being a poetic tale of awakening youthful passion and its stifling of earlier memories as yet beyond regression, it echoes the hearing of voices from the previous story. Hearing voices, seeing “voids” or vacuums, ancient leaf-carpeted woodland beds, I infer: a “consecrated ground” where you can’t bury suicides: where memories still fester… It is the coming and going of young Greta, cf: Ings’ Alice. It does indeed sketch in Michael Marshall Smith’s ’blanks’, and other stories’ burials (figurative or literal): another Clegg “flower woman” here close to confessional, the wild justice or catharsis needed for past memories or “a long-forgotten fear”, essentially ‘unforgotten’: the lies of ‘dark spaces’, ‘tight spaces’, the lie of the Cadigan Eye again where you try to hide lies by aphasia or by Oatesian diaspora especially if those lies once started as stated promises: “undermines his few remaining certainties” – a ‘mine’ (belonging to me), for me, as I mentioned in another real-time review recently, being a form of burial of self: and, meanwhile, this story is this book’s lethally ”epiphanic moment”.

Labels: ash tree press, elastic press, ellen datlow, lethal kisses, mike o'driscoll, unbecoming, wild justice

Extract from my real-time review HERE.

Foreign Bodies – Michael Marshall Smith
“But half-buried is not enough.”
A lengthy extrapolation on sexual politics between young couples in the mid-nineties – a fascinating period piece in itself when objects were objects, letters letters, books books, and what you did on the computer was word-processing with folders. (I wonder how this story would have panned out with emails.) It also has sharp observations on cigarettes, ladies’ public toilet habits, the default oiling by white lies (cf lies in the Cadigan), manipulators and those manipulated often interchangeable as in Schow and Lethem. But really this story is much much more: adding to this book its own often disturbing and page-turning “ingredients“. A memory’s splinter of glass or ‘diamond dust’, I infer, entering the body’s soul, thus being buried, a life of spasmodic denial. The story’s ”blanking” as another form of burial or denial akin to the earlier relic room, meat safe, burial under sand or garden or (incredibly in the explicit lethal finale of this story) under an actual ”ragged patch of carpet” … and Clegg’s flowers, again explicit as ”dried out flowers“. And Ings’ protagonist’s laconic ‘keeping’ of Alice becomes David’s desperately seeking … who? (14 Mar 12 – two hours later)

Labels: ash tree press, ellen datlow, lethal kisses, michael marshall smith, wild justice

Extract from my real-time review HERE.

A Punch in the Doughnut – David J. Schow

“It is said that the first impulse is to share good news; the second, to bludgeon someone with it.”

…and that reminds me of the quote from the Cadigan earlier: “‘Some things won’t go away and some things won’t come back.’ [...] ‘If there were any justice in the world, the two would cancel each other out, or at least balance.’” And those lies again, and whether an Oates marking on a cup is to mark that cup or to mark the other cup that has no marking. This story is so politically incorrect, I hesitate to even review it. I expect the publishers of this book will have been incarcerated since 1996 for publishing this story in the first place. But, taking my life in my hands, here goes… The prose style is a pack of synaptic racers racing inside a just-fired diamond bullet. So much more dead-eyed than a golden one. The two protagonists – I thought perhaps they are wrestlers or prize-fighters who depend on their abiding friendship as a collaborative backdrop to keeping their ‘business’ partnership-as-deadly-enemies in multilple dollars and ‘euro-market crotch grinds’ – but I’m not sure. But one of them gets a bit ’nancy-boy’ and starts yearning after a new friend with a huge dong to be lethally kissed or absorbed elsewhere. But the thing that will always stay with me about this never-to-be-forgotten story is “the Great Despair“: not a sudden shaft of revelation as we might have expected in our respective heydays of youth and aspiration but, rather, a slow-motion jumble in the jungle that accurately predicts – from when it was coined in this 1996 published story - the 2012 world today, with the downward sluggish accretive kindlefest entropy from the Millenium Bug onwards where each of us in our billions will now be needed to extract each apportioned particle of pixellated “diamond dust” that carpets the infinite retina of Cadigan’s aphasic eye: the bloodshot eye with spinning iris that is the internet. Or if not extract, implant. All depends which cup of wild justice you’ve got: marked by bluff or double bluff or neither. (12 Mar 12 – another 2 hours later)

Labels: ash tree press, david j schow, ellen datlow, lethal kisses, wild justice

I like TS Eliot's concept of 'objective correlative'.
But I prefer my own term of 'disarming strangenesses'
I've coined for describing Aickman's objective correlatives.

Labels: robert aickman, TS Eliot

I woke during the night with a sudden revelation. I recorded it on my real-time review of SECRET EUROPE at the point I had reached, i.e. with 'Cabaret Zoltaire' by Mark Valentine.
Whether or not this is an intentional literary trick, it’s a literary trick that will go down in history!!!!!!
http://nullimmortalis.wordpress.com/2012/03/08/secret-europe-howard-valentine/

Labels: cabaret zoltaire, dan ghetu, ex occidente press, john howard, mark valentine, secret europe

AN EXTRACT FROM MY REAL-TME REVIEW OF 'SECRET EUROPE' HERE

In 2008, I saw this painting by Christian Krohg (1852 -1925) inside the Oslo National Gallery. I wished her better.

A Minor Official - Mark Valentine

Labels: a minor official, christian krohg, ex occidente press, john howard, mark valentine, secret europe, way of the sun

Extract from my review of SECRET EUROPE - here

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Westenstrand – John Howard

“…with effort routes work themselves out.”

Labels: john howard, mark valentine

‘zeroism, egnisomicon, egnisism’ in conjunction with PF Jeffery (1967), ‘whofage’ in conjunction with PF Jeffery (1973), ‘agra aska’ (1983), ‘weirdmonger’ (1988), use of ‘brainwright’ in modern times (1990), Salustrade (1992) use of ‘yesterfang’ in modern times (1997), ‘wordhunger’ (1999), ‘nemonymous, ‘nemonymity’, late-labelling, veils-&-piques’ (2001), ‘denemonise’ (2002), ‘megazanthus’, ‘weirdonymous’, ‘chasing the noumenon’ (2003), ‘wordonymous’, ‘wordominous’, ‘the-ominous-imagination’, revelling in vulnerability (2004), ‘a woven fire-wall of words’, ‘the synchronised shards of random truth and fiction’, ‘nemoguity’, ‘vexed texture of text’, ‘fictipathy’, ‘nemotion’, ‘the hawler’, ‘the angel megazanthus’, ‘klaxon city’, ‘horrorism’ when used as a word for the philosophy of horror fiction (2005), ‘publication-on-reading’, ‘antipodal angst’, ‘the tenacity of feathers’, ‘a writer’s mandala’, ‘wordy weird’, ‘nemophilia / nemophobia’, ‘magic fiction’ as the obverse of the more common expression ‘magic realism’, ‘weirdtongue’ as the ‘name’ of a language, ‘Glistenberry’ as an alternative name for ‘Glastonbury’, ‘tonguage’ as a ‘conscious’ language, ‘yester-eggs’ as a term for Proustian ‘selves’, ‘the parthenogenesis of reality from artifice’, ‘all is for the pest in the pest of all worlds’, ‘Baffles’ as fables with muffled morals (2006), ‘fanblade fable’, ‘abutting the if’, ‘word clones / word clowns’, ‘bumps for books’, ‘rite of review’, ‘cone zero’, ‘a basket of coinages’ (2007), ‘small press cover ark(ive), the baser pulps’ ‘orrorfaces’, ‘the wheel culture’, ‘netogenic’, the first fiction about a ‘drogulus’, ‘Innerskull’, ‘meganthus‘ (2008), ‘CERN Zoo’ in literature, ‘Real-Time Reviewing‘, ‘ligottum‘, ‘the pit and the pessimum‘, ‘ligottus‘, ‘fubbcuckle’, ‘extraneity creep’, ‘pillowghost’, ‘intowards’, ‘powderghost’, ‘nightmare’s moat’ (2009), ‘THE TENSES’, ‘scream munch’ as another word for ‘captcha’, ‘skight’ – threepenny bit, ‘invitations from within’, ‘novellatory’, ’Ress’, ‘Venn Dreams’, ‘Tearsheet Doll’, scanbuncle, A Götterdämmerung of Guts , Holistic Horror (2010), SFtopia, Salustraders / Overspacers, Novellarette, Inquel, Gaddafery, Jungian autonymity, sudracide, an impesto novel, trendbaffler, our planet as reliquary, fictionatronics, Lovecraftianisation, “To know the worst is also to know the best“, vignellarette, “Nothing is controlled by logic other than logic itself.”, nightgators, Horror Genreators, dicksplay, roman littoral, ghostalt, poltergeistalt, horrasy, Horrasy: The Horrastic and the Heuristic, srednibution, srednidipity, Lovecraftian indescriptivities, bememorise, alephantiasis, reva-menders, metapomorphic, rarifiction, neoloquism, Was the God Particle born instable? (2011), angelivalent, literal-meaning dreaming, the ‘Higgs boson’ of Horror, The Weirdonomicon, Aickmania, shortcomings harnessed are stronger than strengths unused, privacy-trawler. (2012).

Real-Time Review continued from HERE

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The Snow People

"Charlie Goode was a great believer in synchronicity."

The next Ghost-Hunter story seems to me to be the natural, yet unpredictable, progression of this book's inter-generationality theme towards an absurdist but - due to this book's 'magic fiction' as opposed to mere 'magic realism' alone - highly believable culmination. Via the imputed cryologies of 'gradual' bereavement and by means of 'passing on' rather than being 'lost' or vanishing altogether during the death process, here the powers let loose by the 'Ice House Pond' give their answer to all Ligottian nihilism by embracing that nihilism: by stitching music from snowflakes: allowing fiction to be our religion, tantamount. Seems to be synchronous with my 'relaxed snowman' photo above that was placed on this site around 5 Feb  before I started reading this book. Do work through the logic of this story together with the foregoing backstories, and you will see, I hope, what I see in this story.  There are some incredible descriptions of those hanging on to death and thus to life - 'playing' in the snow. It is simply a gem of a piece that needs to be read before you are lost or pass on yourself.  Or possibly keep it unread, and you will never die? Meanwhile: "Inside, Charlie found Bobby helping Jimmy dump several boxes of old books and knick-knacks into a large crate labelled TRASH." (15 Feb 11 - two hours later)

THIS REAL-TIME REVIEW IS NOW CONTINUED HERE.

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