Saturday, June 24, 2017

The Quarantined City - James Everingtom

16 thoughts on “The Quarantined City – James Everington

  1. “—the two local political parties are at each other’s throats again, despite supposedly having formed a unity government for the duration of the quarantine.”
    I forced myself to finish reading where I finished reading – in hindsight. I so much craved to continue, but determined to eke out this book, one so self-evidently – already! – up my Dream Archipelago street, except it isn’t the Dream Archipelago. It’s a city quarantined, but why? Protecting those outside the city obviously. But from what in this city? Quarantines, unlike filters, do not work both ways, and the city is surely not being protected from those outside it … as in Brexit? But the original version of this book seems to have been in 2015.
    We follow Fellows, the male protagonist, a budding writer of what I imagine to be Dream Archipelago-like fictions, and I am enraptured by this pungent genius loci, his vision of a child ghost, his café existence, the old and new money before and after some post-quarantine currency change, his befriending of a Lesbian (he is not gay himself), and his search for an author’s work, an author by the name of Boursier who seems to be an inhabitant of the city… (Bourse, French for purse or for their stock exchange?)
    How much more strongly could a book have snatched me away with its plot and adept style? Well, I don’t know; I might be Boursier himself. You never know. Aberrant thoughts, I suspect.
    So far read up to: “Taking another swig of the beer, he begins.”
  2. “…so could he somehow have been mistaken, until Boursier made him see it?”
    I am caught up in fiction affecting fiction, as Fellows reads a bit of Boursier and seeks the right currency to buy more in old-fashioned zines, I guess. A vision of an entropic motorway service station inside the fiction inside the other. Not zombie-like so much as sluggish and dusty. Cars breaking the rule of which side of the road to drive. As this author breaks unwritten fiction rules with having names similar like George and Georgia (as he had Katya and Katherine in ‘Paupers’ Graves’)… and the most haunting ghost, too. Can a ghost touch you, the ghost of a child? Caught up, yes. But want to read it sluggishly, to suit its cross-currents of mood. Not that sluggishness is a bad thing or even real when seen in hindsight.
    So far read up to: “But that is another thing he can let George distract him from confronting for the moment.”
    • I am just beginning to wonder, wander in my mind, whether, yet again, I have serendipitously happened to choose two books simultaneously to review in synchrony or synergy or symbiosis with each other, this one and ‘The Wanderer’ by Timothy J Jarvis here, utterly distinct from each other but mutually revelatory.
  3. “Shake his treats!”
    “It’s, it’s a yowling sound isn’t it?”
    Yowling, as frequently as in the concurrent Jarvis?
    This starts off ‘Twat hot’, as I shall call it. A recurrent word from this book itself and from Boursier’s fiction within it, and the condition of weather that seems to come with the territory of questionable quarantine. Print seems to slide off things like newspapers, off quarantine-protesting pamphlets, turning grubby. Like old currency. Outside of this book, collectors of banknotes relish their tactile grubbiness and wrinkled fading, the evidence of passing through human hands of history, and other conditions affected by climate, heat or rain…
    The next Boursier fiction he reads is full of rain in contrast to the telling heat in the text outside of it, and a making new, a cleansing by rain. The slipperiness of flensed identity as a man seeks for a beloved cat in the rain then returns to his woman…
    The pages of fiction as a sort of hard Boursier currency, softening, then less like money…? Approaching untactile Bitcoin? Such as the flensed or cleansed version I happen to read?
    So far read “and shrieked back.”
  4. “George!” he calls again. He has never really noticed before how close the name of his cat is to that of his only friend in the city;
    And I notice the similarity in the names of Fellows’ ex and the waitress in the Carousel café. This is becoming even more entrammelling of the reader in general. And particularly for a gestalt real-time dreamcatcher like me – where stories have often seemed to affect real life outside that story, and vice versa. In fact the more years I do this activity, the more strongly this effect seems to happen. Not cause-and-effect, but a preternatural synchronicity, as above so below, as in a book so outside it. But now, as a result of Everington, I am actually wondering whether this phenomenon is caused by cause-and-effect after all! And I am gratified to allow a shudder of mixed feelings at such incipient understanding.
    Read up to – …something else in this city different to how he remembers it being.
  5. “There are rumours that the inhabitants of the Enclave are manoeuvring to be excluded from the quarantine, leaving the rest of the city to its fate; how that would even be possible when they are all as sealed off as everyone else Fellows doesn’t know.”
    This is amazing stuff first published in 2015 about today in 2017 somewhere outside that text as well in it. What or who is quarantining or brexiting what or whom?
    A few hours before reading this section I posted this tweet:
    “quasi-mystical” as it says in this section. I prefer ‘preternatural’.
    This section is a striking portrait of the Enclave, a posher part of the city, yet still the city. A telling concept for this exceedingly hot weather today (for our average clime), hot outside where I read this and try to change things by dint of a concept that fiction is stronger than reality itself.
    A whole party of us readers triangulating the coordinates of the inimical gestalt towards a more benign one. Some more hopeful and trusting than others.
    Read so far up to “He begins to read.”
  6. “(Stefan didn’t read the papers but he was aware that they’d recently become more like he remembered in his youth: slimmer, black and white, sombre headlines with all hysteria edited out.)”
    We listen to Fellows read ‘Spot the Difference’ by Boursier, a very disturbing tale, worthy of Aickman or other weird writers more well known than this author. It tells of Stefan and his twin daughters, and Echo the imaginary friend of one of the daughters, and the book where you have to spot the differences in two pictures, and the things that Echo makes to take across the border, always with differences. The carousel like one fused piece of plastic. AMAZINGLY, earlier this morning, before reading this Boursier story, I read and reviewed Ghahwagi’s Wollstonecraft here with its own carousel, a carousel with differences to note from Boursier’s carousel, and much talk in the Ghahwagi of similar borders as Boursier’s and Everington’s, and a newspaper headline saying: “A NATION WITHOUT BORDERS IS NOT A NATION.”
    Now read up to: “‘Spot the difference Daddy!’ Alicia said excitedly.”
  7. “Was he a twat? I bet he was a twat. You should never meet your idols you know…”
    I feel like a twat. I have just reached sections of this book that confirm in me that some books can change overnight, even the bits I have already read. I have felt this over the years of doing gestalt real-time reviewing (and I have actually said so, within them), felt this with books of paper pages, not only with those of electronic pages.
    This book is its own möbius section. The city changes within the book, but the book itself changes arguably more than the city, as I enter another Boursier internal story, one more experimental than the others, about an exorcist and a man who I feel is a bit like what once must have been a prophecy of Trump, someone who thinks he is doing good… with a wife who suffers him.
    …so that fellow Fellows can get rid of the ghost in his house?
    He has met Boursier, you ask? I forget.
    Read up to: “Fellows turns the page as if expecting more,”
  8. “Does he really believe that fiction is so transparent in its workings, that allegory is nothing more than X = Y?”
    It’s more subtle than that, I guess, like real thoughts needing triangulation rather than straight lines. Like routes spoken by an alien or faulty sat nav? Like the word ‘Alzheimer’ (a word conjured for me thus obliquely by this text) now meaning a fizzy alcoholic drink, or at least sounds like a brand of champagne?
    Exorcism is like a sort of quarantining of Alzheimer’s. Taking the ghost-that-is-you and leaving just the body. Or being captured by Kafkaesque guards during the East European plot in an ExOcc book?
    Boursier’s fiction of exorcism was like a combination of the champagne and the faulty sat nav, leaving not a ghost but a cripple?
    Frightened and disturbed by the aftertaste of this text today. But at a level I can more easily allow to be forgotten along the natural courses or channels of attrition. Or between one day of opening this book to read it and doing the same the next day.
    “The cat hisses and yowls again as if it can’t stand the sight of the child.”
    Read up to: “…and he imagines he sees a body laid out on the concrete.”
  9. “He didn’t understand people who didn’t read.”
    But, while in custody suspected of having got his hands inky while preparing protest pamphlets, he reads the next Boursier, one with running themes from the others, like paprika… reading now…
    “This is the Boundary Stone,” said Mr. Read—
    And a story of serial foundlings or changeling boys in a city that once had plague borders…
    “He felt different to the day before, but also as if more than a day had passed; like he had crossed some kind of border in the night.”
    But there is a lot more I am deliberately not telling you about or I have already forgotten. (My original purpose in gestalt real-time reviewing fiction books was not only for hawling out connections and meanings in an experimental way but also as an aide mémoire for myself as my mind had always readily forgotten books soon after reading them, and with the onset of age this problem had got worse….)
    Now read up to: “Just some tourist stood gawping at the cabs.”
  10. “, the writer seems so little a part of the world around him.”
    Now read up to: “A part of him distantly wondered how he would describe the scene if it were in a story.”
    …which aptly is not a point in the text at a chapter ending or even at an internal Boursier story ending, but in the midst of an internal story.
    Who has the strongest Panda power, an author or the fiction character he or she creates. Creation in disarray or as part of a strict principle of cause and effect or synchronicity? This book arguably as a rare example of fiction that is empirical, one that changes as a result of that empiricism. Please do read my other review here earlier this morning as an example of this cause and effect or synchronicity.
    Who has the strongest Panda principle? Me as gestalt real-time dreamcatcher or the freehold author named on the book’s spine – or even the latter’s leasehold protagonist writer within that book? Or HIS leasehold writer?!
    There can be no quarantine in books, I suggest. Even if there is within some examples of Darwinian evolution.
  11. Read to the end with some quotes to preserve from these closing sections of the book:-
    “It’s just a story, he thinks, you can change how it goes.”
    “; everything—the dragging sound of something hauling itself closer,”
    “the boy sprawls ungainly across the blue tape border on the floor.”
    “card sharps”
    “There is an awkwardness between them…”
    “He attempts to flatten the pages of the rolled up manuscript…”
    “another wanderer who somehow got stuck here.”
    Double bluff, double vision, double you or a letter called double u
    And the I of K in the ‘awkwardness between them’ corner-stabbed or crippled by an author’s moving feast of a protagonist where words have their power of shape beyond their meaning or beyond the freehold authorial or leasehold narrative intention, killing the foundling or changeling child that was once you or yours if you had not pulled out at the last moment or careered further in…?
    Fellows Lawrence Mogwai
    A dream archipelago, the islands of which become overlapping Venn Diagrams that contain overlapping fiction plots as well as quarantined brexited trumpish reality, too.
    My thanks to this book for its uniquely simultaneous crystallisation of the hawling process mentioned earlier today here:
    The Quarantined City is meanwhile literature’s only exorcism of whoever reads it, whoever reads it in its own hyper-imaginative spirit, assuming that you, Mr or Ms Read, do read it at all, to discover whether I am right or not. An erected cornucopia of champagne glasses fizzing out celebratory cascades of bubbly Alzheimer in ‘moto perpetuo’ from one to the other. Or a house of cards. Sharped and shuffled pages.
    “Borders only exist when you let yourself see them,”


    The Wanderer by Timothy J Jarvis

    22 thoughts on “The Wanderer – Timothy J. Jarvis

    1. Pages vii – xv, 1 – 24
      “…because I’ve become convinced, in recent years, history is drawing to a close.”
      The footnoted pre-circumstances surrounding this manuscript – a manuscript starting on page 1 – are enthralling and convincing and imaginovocative; its stated shortcomings – of a narrator struggling anew with his native language: Maturin-like? perhaps Hodgson born? or Matthew Gregory Lewis of a Wandering figure as modern man become ancient in a far immortal future? – are, for me, so far, strengths. I am utterly captivated and the initial narrative journey, by dint of perceived chance accidents of fate that are more than coincidental, perhaps more than accidental, as most of my preternaturally chosen gestalts reviews in the past attest, lead from past public viewing of a seemingly unpuppeteered Punch and Judy show in the streets of modern London (our modern London today but ancient from other viewpoints, or slightly ahead of us, judging by the TV quiz show we glimpse the narrator glimpsing in a pub) towards a more private performance in a wonderfully delineated catacomb with striking hellish interactions…
      Dread and Terror. But as Maturin himself wrote in Melmoth: “Terror has no Diary.”
      I will not in future attempt to itemise the audit trail, if such it be, of the plot, but hopefully confine myself to affective reactions and hopefully no spoilers, subject to the precarious nature of real-time reviewing, and to be eked out savouringly, too, as warranted by this book. A review that might be re-inserted between the paragraphs of the book in some edition of it in the ancient future? Itself without puppeteer except the retrocausal unknown goal toward where, by hawling, I gingerly wander myself.
    2. Pages 24 – 33
      “Coincidence? Or an obscure threat?” (Footnote on page 284)
      A dread account as interlude amid other “dread accounts” the narrator later intends to seek out from others amid his own dread account represented by this manuscript which is its own reading interlude as dread account in my own life, making the life either side of it worth living, as it were. Well, that’s how I react to the Rastafarian minicab driver’s helping the narrator escape the narrator’s own dread account that is happening in real-time with the Rastafarian’s own dread account of his past as he drives the minicab in seemingly our present day London as palimpsest. Page-turning with dread, “between the everyday and the eldritch” – to contrastive undercurrents of Pärt into gestalt?
      Meanwhile, perhaps topical in my own real-time while reading this: “It a duppy-man. I’s sure!”
    3. Pages 33 – 49
      “: a buried evil will always claw its way to the surface.)”
      Bracketed by a smiley? We are reminded from which great distance of time this narration is being stretched to London more or less today, and, amid strains with his girl friend, our narrator goes from being Pärted to Sectioned. This followed his being investigated by the police as part of serial violent incidents in London that had nothing to do with him and now kept inside to cure his madness caused by the Punch and Judy experience, kept inside an institution that seems cross-sectioned between Aickman’s hospice, Mann’s sanatorium in ‘The Magic Mountain’ classic and the asylum in JC Powys’ wonderful novel called ‘The Inmates.’
      The skilful narrative flow belies any narrative madness for me. I suspect the leasehold narrator has a freehold ghost-writer? I literally can’t put this book down. Seriously so. With luck, things in ordinary life will crop up to stop my reading this extraordinary book on some days, thus to eke it out? Luck, however, like a filter, can work both ways, especially for a sectioned reading?
    4. Pages 50 – 69
      “my eyes returning again and again to the dome of St Paul’s”
      As mine did and still do from the day I put fiction pen to paper.
      Anyway, I could not resist having my necessary dose of this book in the last hour (I may not be able to have a further dose for a few days?) and it continues cumulatively to captivate me. I see this aeon-grizzled literature-reading figure in the far ancient future on his Ark and the yawping, gawking savages in the wild vicinity as he reaches back by dented memory to write about events in a recognisable London (if one when people could apparently smoke pipes in pubs) and celebrity culture was discussed and recognisable personality-types clashed …whereby the narrator has invited a few strangers, now named and characterised, with their own ‘dread accounts’ to counterpart his own.
      Poe is mentioned. Meanwhile, I may be wrong, but I also sense cosmotically the soul of William Blake somewhere in the region of this book. I should make it clear that while reading this (so far) utterly impressive Jarvis novel I shall be simultaneously real-time reviewing here a Romanian-published fiction and poetry book entitled ‘All is Full of Hell’, a massive and beautiful book explicitly inspired by Blake.
      “Aye. All’s going to Hell, right enough.”
      “These Romanians and what have you.”
      Spoken by those in the pipe-smoking London pub in this section of pages.
    5. Pages 70 – 92
      “, the secrets were fictions thought up solely to compel belief,”
      Pub talk, turned into one of the summoned (William, known as the Conkerer at school) imparting his ‘dread account’ to the others, as then transmuted by the alchemy of the narrator’s fiction into a tale of knights in the environs of the Spaniards pub on Hampstead Heath, a mock-chivalrous Ka-Tet against demons, whereby they seem to ape the ‘glorious’ suicidists of our own time, a veritable Ucello painting of St George and the Dragon, with gory accoutrements.
      I keep my own powder dry. Be it vision or truth. A context prefiguring a clinched gestalt by eventual hindsight. “Faith exacted as the price of aped disclosure;”
    6. Pages 93 – 105
      “As I’ve written, I’m sure I’ve evaded him so long only because he wished to prolong the hunt;”
      As I do, too. This is stunning and astonishingly written material back in the ancient future or forward to there along its retrocausal path? We follow the aeon-prolonged protagonist narrator as he returns from his Himalayers (my conceit, not necessarily the text’s) to the distant past London, the period and place of which he writes of or repeats the pub meeting’s ‘dread accounts’. “; lodes of lore, seams of stories.” He is still pursued by that demon at that time as much as he is in the future, and I understand more of the pursuit’s connections with the pub reciters, and to his own hinterland of memory, and a tear came to my eye when he sees a dented dome of St Paul’s (but the same St Paul’s?) and I thought of human civilisation’s vulnerable veneer (as does this text), and yesterday’s devastating tower fire in my own real-time, and my own Agra Aska vision of London, and not only does this text have the soul of a Blake (I infer), but, with the decorative and searing corpse-cigarettes, it has a smidgen of Samuels, too?
      Still yowling, yawping, gawking…
      Me still hawling…
      “These midden are like wen, festering metal and plastic, seething chemicals of barrows, haunted by wights and rampant code.”
    7. Pages 105 – 126
      “Reaching the hawsehole, I stretched up, seized the gunwale, hauled myself on board.”
      “…and hauled him to the door, kicking, bellowing, and threw him bodily out, threw his trousers out after him. Just before the door was slammed on him, he bawled…”
      Pungent, graphic, tactile, word-carved by dint of the sight of the words themselves as well as their semantics and syntax, we follow the far future dying earth narrator into the discovery of the evocatively created Ark on the Thames, alongside his self-duty to keep the past pub strand of narration going, where the Chaucerian Tales emerge from small talk, and the mores of pints of beer, a violent drunk, too, after the debriefing of William’s tale, with the far future narrator on the Ark and the tribeswoman typist-by-finger-rote producing his manuscript and thus, in turn, these Tales themselves, and now it’s Jane telling of the sudden out-of-character violence of her husband, a lecturer in Victorian poetry…apparently told as prelude to a subway tunnel in Woolwich?
      Gawping, too.
    8. Pages 126 – 150
      “…but for the immortal it’s intolerable.”
      Jane is a novelist writing about more brutal and ancient (Chaucerian?) times, one with a sneaky hip-flask in her handbag, taking her two sons, for a treat, along the Woolwich foot-tunnel near the Thames Barrier, her lost husband, their lost father, becoming entrammelled with the fiendish force that is to thread all these tales, I guess. Null immortalis, Null immoralist, our immortal writer included. There are self-admitted ‘horror tropes’ here, but it is indeed frightening, with the added irony of Maturin’s ‘Terror has no diary’… given the clue, too (saving my own gestalt work in discovering it) of Childe Roland and the Dark Tower, and thus, too, I guess, King’s Dark Tower, and a future Ka-Tet?
      My role as gestaltist, is also made to seem frightening, my labyrinth of connections, into which I dip my own unconsoling pail or dreamcatcher…
      “…that all our experiences had been wrought by a sole malevolence, and that, just as it is thought all mankind’s dreams come from a single well of horror, into which, from time to time, a poor unfortunate unwittingly lowers his pail.)”
    9. Pages 151 – 161
      “, I’d set down too much by then and had too much still to tell, to purge, of this tale, this account.”
      This is a tale or account of not only narrative and semantic-phonetic-graphological traction (more ‘yowling’ here alongside the continued ‘yowling’ in the Quarantined City) but also purging and dread, perhaps proving for the first time that Terror does have a diary, derived from an ancient future retrocausality?
      Here the narrator on the far future estuary in complex (sometimes sexual) relationship with his typist tribeswoman within an ‘office’ on his Ark – and the inimical forces of other tribespeople that populated our land in those distant days yet to come, though we know those days existed by their blighting and brexiting our world today?
      Also telling mention here of the dislocation between reader’s time in reading and the narrative time,
    10. Pages 161 – 170
      “I’ve pledged to write only what is true;”
      As have I. Here the future’s narrator and tribeswoman are now fleeing northward from the Ark. And thoughts as to the different timelines he is juggling at once, in the Ark ‘office’ writing, with the tribeswoman fleeing, and ‘gawping’ at Jane in the pub. But there is also a consuming digression on the nature of ‘truth’ involving striking meaty paragraphs on “The philosophies which held sway in Naufana and the city whose name I can’t remember,” – also explicit mention of Tainaron which I happen to know is a ‘truth’ by Leena Krohn, whom AMAZINGLY I mentioned here earlier this morning in connection with another book, i.e. mentioned by me there before reading this section of the Jarvis. Also, there is explicit mention of Ambergris in this section today of the Jarvis which I happen to know is a ‘truth’ by VanderMeer and, again, AMAZINGLY, I also mentioned Leena Krohn yesterday when reviewing VanderMeer’s Borne here.
    11. Pages 170 – 183
      “, woken from a dream of London, as it was in my youth, but clinker and ash, folk, with charred flesh sloughing from their bones, stumbling in the streets.”
      Often I read books at the optimum or pessimum moment for them in my life….
      Meatily-paragraphed texture by the far future narrator with his tribeswoman against the other tribes, explaining the attritional circumstances of his writing what we are reading, then we are catapulted back to the pub where we have the de-briefing of Jane’s tale and the prelude to Duncan’s. Meanwhile, I shall experiment with ‘the parallax poetry of piss’…
      “, I’d pretended to be a monster, chased them, that was all.”
    12. Pages 184 – 206
      “‘ But together we could make a good haul.’ […]
      ‘What about this preternatural stuff?'”
      Duncan’s Tale. Miners as spirits, Gothic catacombs as postludes to butchery, Duncan’s story retold meatily and detailedly (some details throwaway biographical-historical details or not), retold stylistically rather than in pub-talk, retold by narrative distance. His tragic childhood in Glasgow, his later card-sharping and spirit séances to dupe others. One séance is a group of random people as fateful gestalt, as much as the pub group of random people whence it derives to be told is equally a fateful gestalt. Gestalt within gestalt. Mine within mine, as one in the séance dupes Duncan himself into such gory mines latent inside end to end reading minds of literature’s labyrinth. Explains Duncan’s missing limb and much else, as well as gratuitous details, or seemingly gratuitous, so far.
      Sometimes this is Gothic treacle, sometimes revelations of light beyond that treacle. That’s the way to do it!
      Together – by readerly triangulation of fiction’s coordinates – we could make a good haul.
      “: a tumult of snarls, gibbers, howls, sobs, yowls, yawps, yatters, pules, whickers, wails, shrieks, moans, groans…”
    13. Pages 207 – 229
      “…where weird devices yammered, twittered, snickered, groaned, hissed, yowled, tutted.”
      Twittered and tutted indeed.
      This text is the most deceptive, adroitly-syntaxed, sharply claused, strikingly semanticised gothic treacle that slides down like best syrup, as we go back and forth to the far future Ark and its ‘office’ and scatter-gun scatology-eschatology, with gore and spilling innards and weird healing then to the smoky London pub, some smoke sculpted into shapes by our central nullimmortalis of a wanderer (one of my favourite pop records I played again and again on my dansette deck as a youth was Dion’s The Wanderer) and now we learn from him via pub talk of Tartarus and how the Wanderer who ties these aeons together has been tempting other artists and writers into such visionary dangers, many of whom we can recognise from the real biographical descriptions of them. For example, I suspect this is the concurrently reviewed William Blake: “Another of my victims was an English Romantic who could not see clearly enough to follow me, as his sight was bleared by swigs of nepenthes.”
    14. Pages 230 – 251
      “Creation is in disarray.”
      Vestigial, not inchoate, overwrought, too, from internal inspection by a character within the manuscript, self-referential as this book sometimes is, and it is the perfect subject for a gestalt real-time review, as we appear to be reading a manuscript being written in real-time before our very eyes. Creation not only in disarray, real universal mis-evolution with mutant healing and null immortality, but also in retrocausal gestalt when the final hindsight is clinched, as it now seems to be, although by the number of pages left to read with a feel of its width as paper, perhaps the final hindsight has not yet been reached. A gory story. A visionary horror Hodgsoniana. Yet, something far more, I sense, whatever its overwrought nature as internal criticism.
      Here, too, more “gawking”, “yawped”, “guffawed”, “bawling” as well as “riding a tiger”.
    15. Pages 252 – 311
      “, you, my real reader (and I couldn’t have wished for a better),”
      Well, thanks, and thank you for the ‘hauled, hoicked, hawking, bawling’ in these last substantive pages of the book, as well as all the earlier yawping, gawping etc. The first, and perhaps last, book that gives me, at the approaching dying time of my life, a clinching hindsight rationale, with the Wanderer’s inbuilt paradoxes of narration, of bifurcation, of retrocausality, of my own googleable ‘synchronised shards of random truth and fiction’, monumentally crystallising (alongside the simultaneously unique fiction-reality infections of The Quarantined City) my long-term activity that, since ‘Nemonymous Night’, I have called ‘hawling‘.
      These last sections, including epilogue, afterword and various appendices, are like a patchwork of the Wanderer himself or itself gorily, word-treacly chopped up and then spread across the Earth to prevent a regrouping of a dreamcatcher’s gestalt. The paradoxes too are shown as panning out, slowly and fast like Zeno’s Paradox itself, never finished, as there is always at least one more appendix or afterword or epilogue after the previous one, ever halfway there.
      Poe as an eschatology or as a scatology to piss in.
      Card-sharping with fiction pages. Or life’s ultimate truth. This book is probably both.
      On another level, a truly great Gothic horror novel. Terror’s Diary.