Tuesday, August 16, 2016

Brief Thoughts 16

The Haunted Mesa by Louis L'Amour

Louis L'Amour is best known for his westerns. He's probably the most famous author of westerns in the world. I had read his novel Hondo and enjoyed it. I decided to take a look at this horror title of his.

The story revolves around a debunker of the paranormal named Mike Raglan. When his friend, Erik Hokart, sends a letter desperately pleading for help, he heads out to Arizona where Hokart was building a home out in the desert. He discovers that out in the desert, there's a portal to another world.

This novel read to me more like a mystery than a horror novel. There's a lot of creeping dread towards the beginning, but for the most part it focuses on Raglan picking up clues to figure out where Hokart went. The biggest problem with the book is that it drags a lot during the middle. Raglan is constantly asking himself questions, which gets annoying really fast, and a chunk of the middle involves him waffling when he's discovered where Hokart has disappeared to.

For all the dread the book tries to build up of the other world the titular mesa leads to, it's not really scary nor even particularly odd. This is probably why this book gets called science fiction most of the time. You forget this book was supposed to be in any way scary towards the end.

Still, when the action picks up, it's fun to read. The mystery plot, while too slow in the middle, is actually pretty solid and suspenseful.

This probably isn't the best place to begin with Louis L'Amour, but if you've read his other novels and enjoyed them, then this is worth a read.

Buy The Haunted Mesa by Louis L'Amour here. 

Captain Blood by Rafael Sabatini  

While I've been a fan of pirates and sea adventures since I was a kid, I don't recall reading many books about them back then. I recently read and enjoyed Treasure Island, the book that established most known pirate cliches, and I started looking for some more. This book was high on a lot of "best pirate book" lists. It's easy to see why.

The story is about Peter Blood, an Irish doctor and former soldier. When he's found to be giving medical attention to English rebels, he's arrested and sold into slavery in Barbados. Through a mixture of ingenuity and luck, he escapes with several other slaves and takes to the sea to become a pirate.

This book was just fun to read. It moved at a good pace, had a lot of great humor, great action, Captain Blood is a very likable character, and it leaves you feeling satisfied after you've read it. This is the kind of thing you want out of an adventure novel like this.

I really enjoyed this book and I highly recommend it. Sabatini's done several other adventure novels, including a sequel to this one, and I'll be sure to check those out as well.

Buy Captain Blood by Rafael Sabatini here.

Wednesday, July 13, 2016

Chapbook Reviews: Two Wakes and Black Sun Over Green Mountain by Michael Sajdak

Michael Sajdak's first published work, under the name Emril Krestle, was a short story in the book Black House Rocked. Since then, he's edited a book of lawsuits by performance artist Jonathan Lee Riches and released three chapbooks of poems (two of which were also written under the name Emril Krestle). I've already reviewed Pan is Dad before. I'll be taking a look at his other two here.

Two Wakes
Outside I can hear the sound of a flag
And an old woman's heart breaking
Under the wheel of a school bus
That is full of little boys and girls pressed into uniform
And some young man has just bought a new suit
Because he got hired at some new business down the street
And I'd just smoked some shitty opium in my room
What distinguishes Two Wakes from Pan is Dad is that the general tone of Two Wakes is more jocular and the themes are more "down to earth." Many of the poems deal with losers and the downtrodden in a humorous manner and several others are heavily nature oriented. Even the more absurd poems are less abstract. For example, one tells a narrative of a man who used to own a "monkey business." He discusses how the business grew and eventually went bankrupt. He later recounts how he unwittingly upset a bar tender by discussing it.

Another poem is about the childhood of Thomas Jefferson and his relationship with a slave named Jupiter. It shows how they developed a deep bond despite being master and slave and laments how Jupiter has largely been forgotten by history. 

This chapbook seems to have been intended to be read as whole than as a collection. None of the poems are titled and the thematic similarities are very strong between each one.

My only problem with this chapbook is the formatting. The font doesn't fit with the design of the book, and it's far too small and cramped in relation to the pages. Other than that, this is yet another solid collection of poetry on the same level as Pan is Dad.

Two Wakes is currently out of print. I'll update if Sajdak releases a second edition.

Black Sun Over Green Mountain
In the cool, blue deserts of Thebes one night
A shiny blue-gold scarab is rolling its dung
A breeze swings a slum bandit's hammock
Unnoticed, an ancient evil awakens
While Two Wakes is more "down to earth", Black Sun Over Green Mountain is mystical. Many of the poems explicitly deal with Christianity. "Last Supper," of course, is a recounting of the Last Supper of Jesus and his disciples. "Race of Cain, climb the sky!" is about a mysterious group that watched Cain grow up, and may have convinced him to slay his brother, Abel.

Other poems deal with other types of mysticism. "The Mummy," quoted above, is humorous poem about the resurrection of a mummy from the perspective of a piece of its cloth that fell off. "The Hanged Man" is a meditation on the tarot card.

In addition, there are several poems here that are self-referential about poetry. "Roggenbuck" is a humorous poem about doing a reading with the poet Steve Roggenbuck that's incredibly hostile both to the audience and to Roggenbuck. "Absolutely scatological" is a parody of modern poetry that uses scatological imagery to make (often radical leftist) political points.

While Pan is Dad was angry and sarcastic and Two Wakes was jovial, Black Sun Over Green Mountain has a sense of defeat in the tone. That it's the shortest with the most minimalist poems as well gives it a feeling like a lost spirit floating about.

This one you should only really pick up if you enjoyed Sajdak's other poetry books. It's just as solid as the others, but the brevity and sense of finality in it makes it more appropriate to be read in the context of his other work.

Buy Black Sun Over Green Mountain here.

Wednesday, June 15, 2016

Book Review: Anamakee by Garrett Schuelke

Floyd Spicer is a young man who has moved back home and is attending community college in his hometown of Alpena after failing out of Northwestern University. He attempts to get his life on track by working, applying for to WMU, and trying to meet new people. None of it goes well for him.

Anamkee reminds me a lot of Sam Pink's Person. An existential novella about a directionless loser in extremely simple prose. It reads almost like a script in how much the dialogue dominates the story. This isn't a bad thing. Schuelke's dialogue always feels authentic, and at times is pretty funny.

For example, one of the more amusing parts is where Floyd goes into a job interview. He believes it's a manual labor job. When he gets there he finds it to be a pyramid scheme selling vacuums.
Floyd made a fist. "Bump it?"
Robb pointed out the door.
"This may come as a shock to you, but I bet my fist will feel better bumping against the skin on your hand than it will on your face."
The book isn't a comedy, though it has its funny moments. It's not really a drama despite several depressing parts, such as Floyd's borderline abusive father, the loss of his job, and a relationship falling apart for seemingly no reason. In the same vein as Pink, this book is probably best described as Kmart realism.

Floyd Spicer is painfully human. All the bad things that happen to him are sometimes his fault, sometimes completely beyond his control. He's intelligent and shows talent in writing, but he's also very lazy. He's likable enough, but often shows signs of inheriting his father's anger problems.

This novella is Garret Schuelke's first work and it's a very solid one. He paints a compelling picture of the kind of person history is destined to forget. People who enjoy writers like Raymond Carver and Ann Beattie should especially pick this up.

Buy Anamakee by Garret Schuelke here.

Tuesday, April 19, 2016

GUEST POST: Top 5 Books That Inspired Condominium


The essay below is being hosted as part of the promotional blog tour for Daniel Falatko's debut novel. My review of the book is up at Cultured Vultures. The views expressed below are Falatko's and not my own. 


People always assume things. When it comes to works of art, people tend to assume that any work is connected to a host of concrete, critic-approved signposts that preceded it. I pity any indie rock musician, for example, since their first release will no doubt be linked to “The Velvet Underground” or “Joy Division” or “Pavement” or “Sonic Youth” or “Big Star” or “The Stooges” regardless of whether they have ever listened to these bands and even if there is no apparent trace of their sound to be found in the music. I once read an interview with the prick from LCD Soundsystem where he said that he used to go to shows and shout, “I have that record too!” at the bands. Critical signposts in any art form can feel like prisons it is impossible to escape from as an emerging artist, and any work you put out will have dozens of LCD Soundsystems shouting, “It’s all been done before!” from the sidelines.

Literature is even more limiting in this regard, mainly because the critical signposts you get tied to just aren’t as cool as The Stooges. Did you put out a short story collection that contains subtle epiphanies? Alice Munro! Does your novel take a dystopian view of modern civilization? J.G. Ballard alert! Oh, so your novel is violent? Hello Cormac McCarthy! It doesn’t even matter if you’ve never read McCarthy or if you made no attempt to emulate his style. If the first review mentions “McCarthy” even once then you are bound for life to this critical signpost. Your next work could be a life-affirming tale of a young African boy befriending a fuzzy, talking Sloth, and you best believe “McCarthy” will be mentioned at least a dozen times in reference to this work. You will never escape. Cormac’s grizzled shadow will hover over you until the day you exit this world, and all because some parents’ basement book blogger hopped up on Cinnamon Chai, who may or may not have read past the cover blurb, pulled an LCD Soundsystem on your first review.

When Condominium got signed, my wonderful publisher was way into tying me to John Updike for marketing purposes. Now, I do love me some Updike and I happen to have grown up in the same strange region which birthed the Rabbit King, and there are certainly much worse literary figures to be tied to, so yea what the hell? At least this connection set me up for some admittedly hilarious one-liners on the hate-clogged internet (“So when I got to ‘Millennial John Updike’ I took a moment to move sharp implements out of the room.” LOLZ). Granted, I hadn’t cracked open a Rabbit tome in over a decade when working on Condo, and Sir Updike’s fine blanket of suburban sprawl 60s dread was not keeping me warm through long nights working on the novel.

Other than witty quips about millennial Updikes (“How can someone clearly in his mid-30s be considered a millennial?” Ouch, dude.), the initial reaction to the novel could be summed up with just five syllables:

Bret Ea-ston Ell-is

Now don’t get me wrong, I would love to have BEE’s checking account…and his agent…and at least three of his blazers…and whatever deal he made at the crossroads which automatically guarantees every one of his notebook entries is made into a feature film…his whole life basically…minus The Canyons of course…and dude can keep the podcast and the Twitter account…yet I’d be proud to have written The Rules of Attraction…but the whole coked-up bisexual urban Hemingway wearing Prada vibe was not a direct inspiration on this particular work. Referring to an author of urban contemporary fiction as being “Ellisian” at this point is like saying a young, rebellious actor was influenced by Marlon Brando. Dude’s shadow looms so large over the contemporary fiction landscape that we are essentially all his offspring. But it doesn’t mean that a well-worn and heavily-noted copy of Less Than Zero was sitting next to our Macbooks as we honed our latest slice of contemp fic. Instead it was Glamorama for me. Or wait, no it wasn’t. Sorry.

So which well-worn copies were sitting next to my wife’s Macbook when working on Condominium, you ask? For someone who toils within the area of contemporary fiction, I must admit that I don’t read any contemporary fiction. At all. Ever. That contemp fic label is unavoidable, of course, since I do happen to write fiction in the present moment, but believe me if I could write novels from 1920s Paris or the Golden Age of Egypt, I absolutely would. People say I have strange reading tastes. I often glance up from the book I’m wrestling with on the subway to catch someone staring at the cover in horror or confusion. I can’t even count the number of times a friend has taken one look at the book I have in my hands and stated, “You are so fucking weird, man.” So while this list of books that influenced Condominium may seem obtuse to you, they make perfect sense to me, and every square inch of the novel bears their imprint.

Trigger warning: There are no beatniks mentioned here. Thomas Wolf was not summoned to duty. David Foster Wallace was not present, nor were any bandannas worn. Michael Chabon was a no-show. A.M. Homes must have been out sick that year. And most disturbingly, Charles Bukowski is not, and I repeat NOT, included. I’m terribly sorry in advance for any confusion or offense taken due to these omissions.

So with no further ado about nothin’, you can blame and burn these five books if you hated Condominium:

J.K. Huysmans: A Rebours (1884): I’ve never been able to identify a single other person in my life who enjoyed this novel. Most haven’t heard of it, and those who have tried it claim they “just weren’t ready.” Well, I was more than ready for it at 16, and it’s been my main navigational device in life ever since. Regarding the author, let’s just say that “J” to tha’ “K” was one real deal weirdo Frenchman motherfucker and leave it at that. Here in his best-known work, lead protagonist Des Esseintes’ fish-out-of-water pain is so completely vivid and lacerating it basically leaps up off the bargain bin book pages and wraps you in its painfully enticing shroud. Des Esseintes’ quest to live a life cut off from all the aesthetically unappealing aspects of the modern society that tortured him so, surrounding by only his favorite books, foods, liquors…even scents is, to me, entirely admirable, and his abject failure to find happiness even in his own perfectly orchestrated isolation is both heartbreaking and fully inevitable. But the main thing that influenced Condominium, possibly to the novel’s detriment, is that Huysmans’ vibe is NEVER angry and NEVER bitter. Yes, he views the society he happens to have been born into with horror, but it’s an almost naïve terror, much a like a child stumbling across a dead rat in the street. He isn’t outraged. He doesn’t lash out at his surroundings. He’s simply frightened and confused and wonders why this awful thing has to be. Huysmans understood that bitterness and anger just aren’t attractive, and living an entirely attractive existence is what his creation, Des Esseintes, was all about. Throughout all his works, Huysmans longed for the time just before modern Christianity really took over, when the old pagan Gods and The Cross stared each other face-to-face and even performed a strange little dance together. It’s a weird thing to long for, but Huysmans’ pain at having missed this dance is very, very real. Unlike those of us today who long for truly ancient times, J.K. was born only a couple hundred years too late. So close he could taste it, and you can absolutely tell he tasted it when reading even his weaker works. But no, he wasn’t bitter. Huysmans viewed the lame times he was forced to exist in with an analytical but bemused eye. And he was never afraid to make fun of himself or his protagonists. I took this, tried to run with it, and fell flat on my face with Condominium. The book’s view of the current smartphone zombie society was never supposed to be angry. It wasn’t supposed to lash out. And even though it ended up being kind of angry and indeed lashed out at least a little bit, whatever restraint it showed is all owed to Messier J.K. I’ll do better next round, Huysmans. I promise.

Aleister Crowley: Moonchild (1929): Most people’s knowledge of Crowley can be boiled down to, “Wasn’t that the Satanist Jimmy Page worshipped?” And yes, Mr. Crowley was indeed the deceased Magick maverick who’s mysterious powers were summoned by the Wizard Page to harness Led Zeppelin’s ultra-decadent, unstoppable reign of evil greatness in the 70s. And yes, the story you heard is true. Jimmy did buy Crowley’s former estate on Loch Ness (cue visions of Nellie’s serpentine head emerging from the black waters) and all sorts of black magic hilarity ensued. People who know a little more about Crowley could tell you he was a New Age scholar well ahead of his time, a respected mountaineer, a filthy old man of the highest order, and the bald dude with intense eyes peering over Mae West’s shoulder on the cover of Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band. But what barely anyone knows is that The Great Beast 666 was also a fine novelist. He only wrote a couple, with Moonchild being my personal favorite. This novel encompasses most of the best “L” words: Lush, Licentious, Libelous, Lovingly-crafted. As someone who has read this thing probably 100 times, there are still long stretches of pages where I have no idea what is happening. Crowley was all about ancient orders, little-known truths, dead languages, and unwritten wisdom, and he kept his prose stunning but mysterious. Wanting to know is what this book is all about, and it morphs into a different form each time you read it. Bravo, Great Beast. Bravo. And if you don’t see any clumsy esoteric leanings amongst all the modernism in Condominium, then you missed them. Fortunately for you.

Jane de La Vaudère: The Collection (1897-1903): Sweet, sweet Jane. There are only two images I know of depicting this author. One is a color pencil sketch showing Jane in an ultra-chic blue dress, her short brown locks frizzed-out in a way Bobby Dylan would later steal, and an ennui-infected blank stare accentuated by saucer brown eyes. The other is a black and white photo of Jane hard at work at an elegant desk with candle burning and a nude sculpture in her background, with a terrifying cougar skin rug spread out before her, its fangs and peeled open eyes menacing the camera. Although there is no way of knowing what she was scribbling away on in this shot, I’d like to think it was one of the three stunning works collected here: Les Androgynes, Le Demi-Sexes, and Les Sataniques. Although Jane may have been the pen name of someone named Jeanne Scrive, the daughter of a famous Parisian doctor, like most alter egos her new identity struck a truer chord. What inspires me about Jane is that, just like my friend J.K., she was once firmly rooted in that most treacherously dull of genres, Naturalism. To think that just five or so years before penning these wonderfully subversive, brilliantly controlled bursts of sheer decadence, she was mired in bleak reality, giving long, detailed rundowns of the ailments suffered by opium addicts on the streets. What Jane learned to do is incredibly important for any writer: She learned to love her subject matter. The voice of these works is a voice reborn, eyes open like that cougar skin rug, shedding the dour constraints of her previous genre and embracing the elusive fact that these things are fun. Being androgynous is liberating if that’s what you’re into. An anarchist throwing bombs can be way sexy. And worshipping Satan? Rock on with yo’ bad selves, les decadents. I would hope that Jane looms large over Condominium, not allowing this writer to get too somber or preachy, embracing and understanding the character’s flaws instead of wagging fingers at them, running down the disintegration of a relationship, a city, an entire modern civilization with an absurd sense of enjoyment. For she certainly isn’t watching over this piece.

Marquise De Sade: Juliette (1797): I once knew an individual who completed his Master’s thesis on De Sade. The fact that this individual eventually did some time in prison and is now a registered sex offender says pretty much all there is to say about the subject matter the Godfather of the Decadents was fond of. To say De Sade just wasn’t made for these times is like claiming it isn’t very pleasant to be set on fire, but then he wasn’t even made for his times, as his own prison record indicates. But the one thing that doesn’t get, ahem, touched on too often in all the movies and writings on De Sade is his masterfully controlled prose. During a time of cumbersome, flowery, overly decorated sentences that lurched slowly along like perfumed slugs, De Sade wrote with great economy and wit. His sentences slash across the pages like elegant knives, and what bleeds through is a gleefully wayward voice unmatched in its enthusiasm in all of literature. Unlike most writers, you can absolutely tell that De Sade was having a blast writing this stuff. He was absolutely loving every last minute of it. It was not a burden for him to compose this content. It was not a chore. And the joy it brought him was worth all that time in prison. So while I may not find sadism a turn on, I do find exuberance to be a thrilling and rare quality in a writer. Yes, I had fun writing Condominium, and if I’m not having fun writing something I discard it, and if even an ounce of joy bleeds through to the final product then I tip a powdered wig to De Sade for the inspiration.

The Master and Margarita: Mikhail Bulgakov (1967): What if Satan were to appear in a Moscow park in the 1930s, flanked by a fast-talking tomcat that walked on his hind legs, a witch named Hella, a fanged assassin, and a butler dressed like Pete Doherty? What if this surreal crew then decided to wreak havoc upon the Russian literary elite? And what if this havoc was wreaked in revenge for a citizen who spent years composing a book about the death of Pontius Pilate and was driven mad by its rejection from this atheist literary world and locked away in a mental asylum? And what if his mistress was turned into a witch by the Satan crew and invited to the Devil’s Midnight Ball where committers of human atrocities arrive from hell and are paraded around the party like red carpet celebrities? And what if the climax of this novel is Pilate himself being released from eternal punishment and forgiven for his betrayal? Well, you would have the greatest novel ever written. This one was so good, in fact, that it was repressed for at least 30 years and didn’t find its way to print until the heady height of the 60s, where it would be best known for inspiring a less-wrinkled Mick Jagger to compose Sympathy For The Devil. But before you blame this novel for that annoying “Woo, Woo!” outro, know that it is a gorgeously composed, complex piece of sustained magical realism that careens and swoops with enough power to lift readers right up off their feet in its slipstream. I know this because it happened to me the first time I read it. This novel taught me the only lesson I ever needed to learn about fiction: Build a world, within a world, within a world, and within this foundation you cannot fail. As long as you’ve built each world true, then all the rest will fall into place naturally. In Condominium that world, within a world, within a world exists within 660 square feet of hardwood floors and modern appliances, on the 16th floor of a brand new condo highrise on the Williamsburg side of the East River. Since so much of the novel needed to take place within this small space, the worlds would have to converge there. Not only did the condo need to fit a newly-purchased set of furniture and Sarah’s collection of Stones records and her wooden voodoo head and Charles’ Cyanide Breakfast shrines, but it needed to fit the Devils’ Midnight Ball and the magic witch river and the Bald Mountain of the crucifixion as well. This is something they just don’t tell you on StreetEasy.com. And though I’m uncertain that these worlds were built completely true, if there is any multi-dimensional feel to Charles and Sarah’s pad then this is owed directly to the lesson shown to me by The Master. Also, special props are in order to Bulgakov for anticipating, in poet character Ivan Homeless, the rise of Bushwick artist homeless chic a good 50 years before it went down, and also for skewering smug, hardline Bill Mayer-style atheists long before the rise of smug, hardline atheist Bill Mayer. Re-spect.

For better or worse, these are the five tomes that were heavy on my mind during the scribing of Condominium. Even if you’ve never read Condo, or you despised it, I’d still recommend all six of these hallucinatory, sometimes mystical, sensually decadent light reads.

So in conclusion, yes, the novel was inspired by Bret Easton Ellis.
___

Bio: Daniel Falatko is a graduate of the MFA in Writing program at Vermont College of Fine Arts. Originally from Pennsylvania, he lives and works in New York City. Condominium, published by CCLaP, is his first novel. His next novel, One Thin Dime, has been signed by the same publisher and is expected to release in early 2017. He holds an MFA in Writing from Vermont College of Fine Arts. He lives and works in New York City.

Sunday, April 10, 2016

Brief Thoughts 15

Outer Dark by Cormac McCarthy 

Somewhere in the American south, a man named Culla impregnates his sister, Rinthy. When she gives birth, he takes the baby into the woods and abandons it there. It's rescued by a tinker who takes it off to safety. He lies to his sister and tells her that it died of natural causes. She quickly discovers that he lied. Culla sets off to try to forget what happened and Rinthy sets off to find her baby. Meanwhile, a group of psychopaths are spreading terror across the counties that Culla and Rinthy pass through. 

Despite the title and the premise of the book, it's probably the least dark I've read of McCarthy's work. Especially in the ending. More than any of his other work, it's about despite the depths humanity can sink to, McCarthy still believes it's capable of redeeming itself.

The Bible is a fixation in McCarthy's other works, but here the references are even further to the front. For example, there's a sequence when Culla is falsely accused of starting a stampede of pigs that causes several of them to fall into a river and drown and kills a farmer. It's an obvious parallel to the Bible story where Jesus casts a legion of demons out of a man and into a herd of pigs who run off a cliff.

This is one of McCarthy's lesser known works, but it's still well worth reading. It might not be the best place to start, I'd say go to Blood Meridian or Child of God for that, but given this was only his second novel, it shows he's been an incredibly talented writer worth reading from the start.

Buy Outer Dark by Cormac McCarthy here. 

My Mother/Madame Edwarda/The Dead Man by Georges Bataille

This is a collection of three short works by Bataille, a novella and two short stories.

The novella, My Mother, is a coming of age story about a reserved young man being corrupted by his libertine mother. It horrifies him at first, but he finds freedom and eventually God in the debauchery she pushes him to engage in.

While I did enjoy it, I found this to be the weakest in the book. A big part of Bataille's appeal for me is the energy and immediacy in it. My Mother, however, is written in the style of a 19th century novel. As such, it becomes a little ponderous and slow, especially in the middle. It does pick up a lot during the end, which is kind of funny, because this book was technically never finished.  As such, the ending is hazy and disordered. Which isn't a bad thing, it's the kind of thing I expect from Bataille.

Madame Edwarda is a short story where a man is out drunk and decides he wants to get laid. He goes into a whorehouse and meets a prostitute who turns out to be God incarnated. This is a strange and insane story that seems to be a good summary of Bataille's atheistic concept of divinity. The base and the sacred as one in the same.

My favorite of the three is probably The Dead Man. A woman grieved by the death of her lover strips down, goes into an inn, and engages in all manner of debauchery. In the process, she meets a dwarf who may or may not be the devil. The simple prose and the frenzied logic of the character's actions reminds me of Story of the Eye. It's a formally experimental story as well. All of the text is clustered in the middle of the page and each page is labeled at the bottom as if it's a separate chapter. It's worth noting that Bataille writes in the preface that he was very sick while he wrote it and doesn't remember writing it. I'm not surprised.

My edition also contains some excellent essays. Part of why I wanted this book is because of Yukio Mishima's review of My Mother and Madame Edwarda included. Ken Hollings also provides an excellent essay called "In the Slaughterhouse of Love" that gives an engaging rundown of Bataille's philosophy of transgression.

While I'd recommend starting with Story of the Eye with Bataille, this is a good follow up if you enjoy that book. Bataille pulsates with a Sadean energy. I once read somewhere that Bataille is not an author who just engages you, he possesses and rots you from the inside like syphilis. I can't think of a better way to describe him.

Buy My Mother/Madame Edwarda/The Dead Man by Georges Bataille here. 

Wednesday, March 16, 2016

Brief Thoughts 14

The Ego and His Own by Max Stirner

I had read excerpts of this book over the years since I first heard of it, and I was somewhat familiar with Stirner's ideas second hand. So I finally decided to pick this up. I wish I had picked it up sooner. This is a napalm bomb of a book. It was shockingly radical when it was published back in 1844, and it still is.

Stirner's thesis is that all "sacred" concepts like God, the State, the family, and "Man" are nothing but spooks, wheels in the head. He argues that the individual, the Unique, and its will are the only thing that can be considered "real." That's might be an oversimplification, but I think it's an accurate summary.

Stirner spends most of his time deconstructing the various sacred cows of his time. For the most part, the book is very easy to understand. The references to contemporary events and to philosophers who are now obscure are probably the most difficult parts. I doubt anyone except graduate philosophy students know who Bauer or Feuerbach are. My edition (and I'm sure most editions in print do) had footnotes that did explain all these references though. 

The most striking thing to me about this book is the amount of time Stirner spends attacking the liberal humanism of his time. He argues that they deconstruct the idea of God, only to take the concept of man/humanity and attempt to make it the highest ideal. As he says, "Our atheists are pious people." This attack is just as relevant today. Especially in the case of identity politics which attempts to attack the oppression of various groups, only to subvert the wills of individuals of these groups, demanding they place the group above themselves. 

His section on "freedom of the speech/the press" really struck me as well. He points out that most of the people who call for total freedom of the press still want to preserve taboos against speaking on certain things. He also notes that "a free press" that exists by permission of the State is not a freedom at all. So much for "the First Amendment." To Stirner, freedom only comes from the will of the individual. Even under threats of imprisonment and death, the individual is responsible for finding ways around it. The analogy he uses is that if there's a rock in your path, you step around it until you get enough gunpowder to blow it up.

The language in the book is clear, while still maintaining a poetry to it. Stirner engages in a lot of repetition that may annoy some, but to me gives it a certain musicality. There are many striking phrases and metaphors that Stirner uses in explaining his ideas. I once read an article by someone who viewed The Ego and His Own as a literary precursor to Maldoror. While I can't find any evidence that Lautreamont ever read Stirner, it wouldn't surprise me. Both have a freewheeling style and engage in a gleeful desecration of everything held sacred. 

It's easy to see why Stirner endures, even if he's not as well known as Ayn Rand or Friedrich Nietzsche. This is an absolutely essential read. 

Buy The Ego and His Own by Max Stirner  

A Sentimental Novel by Alain Robbe-Grillet 

This was Robbe-Grillet's last book before he died. It was originally released in France back in 2007, but didn't get translated and released in the US until 2014.

The story is about a 14-year-old girl named Gigi who has an incestuous relationship with her father. Her father's friend comes over and gives her a gift, a 13-year-old sex slave named Odile who is a former prostitute. There's a lot of whipping, an outing to buy more sex slaves, and an extravagant dinner that culminates in the torture and murder of more prepubescent girls. 

Yeah. There's a reason why it took 7 years for this book to receive an English translation.

Subject matter aside, the craftsmanship of the writing of this book is amazing. The prose creates incredibly vivid images. It's a demented and relentless sexual fantasy.

As good as the writing in the book is, I really don't see how this book can be read as anything other than pornography. Books like Mirbeau's The Torture Garden, Bataille's Story of the Eye, and de Sade's 120 Days of Sodom are full of pornographic writing, but work on other levels as well. A Sentimental Novel, on the other hand, reads to me simply as smut. The fact the author has said in interviews that it was based on his sexual fantasies seems to back this up. 

I'm not against pornography, but trying to assess it is like assessing something like a blender. Either the blender works, or it doesn't. Porn either gets you off, or it doesn't. In this case though, I think it's safe to say that the sexualized torture of prepubescent girls is well beyond most people's limits.

It could be read, I suppose, in the context of Robbe-Grillet's theories of a "new novel," which the translator briefly touches on in his preface. Even then, that only really applies to the unorthodox structure (each paragraph is numbered like it's a separate chapter) and the moments of surrealism at the beginning and the end. These moments seem to be there to emphasize that this is all fantasy, and they are beautiful in the prose and the imagery. 

I enjoyed the writing enough that I'm adding Robbe-Grillet's other works to my list. As for this one, I only recommend it to people who already like Robbe-Grillet (who probably already have this book anyway), or to people with particularly sadistic and extreme sexual tastes.

Buy A Sentimental Novel by Alain Robbe-Grillet here.

Monday, March 14, 2016

Update

The Next Best Book Blog has allowed me to read two poems from the sky is black and blue like a battered child as part of their "Audio Series." You can hear me read the poems "when my boat has sunk" and "brad" there. I want to thank the editors for enjoying my work and for agreeing to host these.

Listen to the poems here.

Also, don't forget that a number of my reviews are going up at Cultured Vultures. Here are my last three.

Condominium by Daniel Falatko
Stone's Throw by David Deitcher
Dream Closet, edited by Matthew Burgess

I'll also have another installment of my "Brief Thoughts" series up at this blog by the end of the week.

For anyone in the Des Moines area, I'll be reading from the sky is black and blue like a battered child at The Fremont on March 27th as part of Ryan Werner and Gwen Beatty's Domestic Garbage Tour.

The Facebook event page is here.

Thank you to Miguel Ramierz for inviting me, and to Ryan and Gwen for having me.

And thank you to everyone who reads and supports me, as well.