Friday, February 23, 2018

Best British Short Stories 2017

Best British Short Stories 2017


Series editor NICHOLAS ROYLE
(My previous reviews of this writer are linked from HERE)

(My previous reviews of this publisher are HERE)

Featuring stories by Jay Barnett, Peter Bradshaw, Rosalind Brown, Krishan Coupland, Claire Dean, Niven Govinden, Françoise Harvey, Andrew Michael Hurley, Daisy Johnson, James Kelman, Giselle Leeb, Courttia Newland, Vesna Main, Eliot North, Irenosen Okojie, Laura Pocock, David Rose, Deirdre Shanahan, Sophie Wellstood and Lara Williams.
My review will appear in the comment stream below…

23 thoughts on “Best British Short Stories 2017

  1. Reversible

    “The police shimmer and stir, lift and separate.”
    A gathering into a gestalt of move on move on, nothing to see here. Yet, we see much in a relatively short space, a tactile scene with tactile words, almost a refrain or incantation of details, but without the repetition that ‘incantation’ would entail. A time of Bluetooth and blue & white police tape. We know when and the sort of who with windcheater and the sort of folk young and old who rubber-neck at things seemingly out-of-the-ordinary, if not extraordinary. A pungent emotion, that’s why I like this essay in reportage because it has a latent relationship between two people we gradually infer by the end and the frailties involved. Nothing is what it seems until it sees you watching it via words. It is. It does.
    (If I now reverted, moved back instead of on, if not actually reversing, to the beginning of this prose verse incantation, I might be told something else instead? Something to see, after all?)
  2. General Impression of Size and Shape

    “All analysis done rapidly under the mind’s surface, like gravel fragments collecting in underwater drift.”
    That’s how I feel about reviewing fiction… and then I think that this particular fiction is another ‘gawping’ or ‘rubber-necking’ (though they’re not the right words, as they’re too derogatory) prose verse which — if not an incantation of larklight, certainly a relentless twitching tactility of words — sees things this time amid birdish crepitation, be that forwards or backwards, moving on or moving together and it must have been a no brainer choice for the ornithological editor (“the furious purring of nightjars”). But I guess he would have chosen this story anyway because, well, it simply works so convincingly within as well as beyond that birdish éclat and its set of collective-nouns and sounds – to make the reader infer the storified relationship of those with the binoculars. It also again conjures up the modern juddering Bluetooth world with its tweets and so on (“bit by bit, bittern by bittern” “a (ha ha) hawk”…)
    “Too far even for binoculars, keep them up ready at face and creep forward with blind feet,…”
  3. As You Follow

    “as a group of men stand and they are going drink, drink, drink,”
    “And him, him, him, he points.”
    This, for me, is an amazing dark but somehow equally undark piece of work. A coruscant vision of a theme bar in London where Mario Lanza songs becomes German. Lederhosen and beer steins. Men drinking. Bouncers. And one elfish boy. I imagine him sometimes like one of the impish birds in the previous story and the narrator watching him a twitcher or a rubber-necker in the first story. I can later imagine the drink sparklers transferring to the body of water…
    “, past the silent dome of St Paul’s, down to the river, to the mighty Thames.”
  4. Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty

    “The Hide sat twenty feet above the forest floor, built on eight great legs of cedar pine. It was a place humans could hide from nature, built for the days when people watched birds.”
    A surprising coincidence for me, in that, immediately before reading this story, I changed the subtitle words of my red site-banner above to something about dirty hands! (This subtitle hadn’t been changed for some months.)
    This is a fascinating gestalt gatherer of a plot, that maybe you never reach the half of its other half. Some inscrutable characters tasked with examining traps and holes – and bird-watching (watching OUT for birds that don’t seem to exist rather than watching them per se), white butterflies, accretive thoughts and other amorphous critters I imagine. And the plots and ploys of this outfit’s pecking order of command. All watched by a narrator perhaps suspected of stealing milk from the others. But it’s not as simple as that. It never is. But the other half of me understands it all. The dirty hands, notwithstanding.
    ‘Well, it’s half of sumit,’ he said, ‘but not half of what it’s meant to be.’
  5. While the Nightjar Sleeps

    “They were the proof that even the darkest moments in life were only junctures that led to somewhere better.”
    But “things were never as good as they promised to be.”
    This second set of inscrutable characters today in a row, those earlier ones looking in traps (for impossible birds?), and now, the necessary bird us found, even if dead, laced with red pollen, in a part of land with Welsh sounding names, characters, whether Quakers or evangelists – or something far more dirty – they hold vigil or ritual, to summon the boy’s father and his mother’s husband back from death. But we are left with a sense of a resting of real dirty fingers on her spine, as a sort of nightjar press? Creating, I infer, a procedure similar to “the picture on the tiny television set […] tugged in the middle, as if someone had drawn their finger through a wet painting.”
    An interpretation that I can’t shake off. You may be luckier.
    My earlier review of the Tartarus Press edition of this author’s THE LONEY:
  6. The Sea in Me

    “Sometimes I wake and I swear I can taste salt,”
    An effective sensory journey inside the mind and body of this young girl, whose accoutrements of hair, skin, and real or imagined scars are subsumed by – or actually subsume – water: in bath, swimming-pool, eventually ocean. Overlapping with the breaking waters of virginity, as it were, in sex with someone called Martin. The ending is its own breaking waters of birth, or is it death? A quandary that is enhanced by my memory of the sparkles in what I called above a ‘body of water’ yesterday about the Giselle Leeb story.
  7. Having only just embarked (not before time) upon reviewing all the books in this series, my usually dependable instincts tell me that the stories will in the main not only represent fine modern examples of quality short fiction within mainstream literature but also strongly appeal to the well-seasoned Hyper-Imaginative, Weird, Strange, SF or Horror Stories province.
    My Tweet covering this point HERE.
  8. Safe

    “But something else, not a voice, a force inside her wouldn’t let go.”
    This story seemed synchronously to ring stronger after listening to Radio 4’s interview with this ( woman‘s son about an hour before reading this story. The tension between your contextual motive and desperate need to make you safe, and those around who, you may empathise, are supporting you (even by being within you or helpful combined-victim target) when you do something desperately but self-justifiably or frenziedly criminal, although it may collaterally ‘kill’ those supporting you, too. Meanwhile, this plain-spoken, straight-in-the-reader’s-eyes story in itself, even without each reader’s outside context, is an extremely horror-powerful story of a woman mentally then physically forced by her husband to strip with his drunken friends. And a lawyer subsequently questioning her about her murderous action upon her husband, seeking a line of defence… but it is more than plain-spoken; it has its own multi-interpretable force. Force against force.
  9. The First Hard Rain

    “, a flock of chaotic, tumbling, terrified birds,”
    A set of relationships and inferences as to their backstory becomes stronger and stronger the more those inferences click into place for you. Me, too. Although it is a completely different scenario of a husband dying, the recriminative tensions and mixed feelings in the wife at least somehow resonate with those in the previous story. And the people who remain to sort out the aftermath run alongside this book’s ‘objective-correlatives’ as birds now in inchoate dilemma between being storm-tossed and attracted to landfill scraps amid the finely disseminated ashes of the departed. There are even the “silvery drips” disseminated by some of the other stories so far. As well as now from car wiper-blades on the M6.
  10. Never Thought He’d Go

    “‘You got water for blood?’ Davi had said scornfully, and Norm had shouted that Davi didn’t know what he was talking about,”
    I found this absolutely enchanting in a William Brown or Jane Turpin sort of way, but also scarily haunting. (Richmal Crompton also wrote ghost stories – my review here – but not sure if Evadne Price did?) It’s words like bitshop, and names like Normsmum, Saz and Davitoo – and “hats” who came round your Mum’s to talk about you. There are also ‘rubbernecks’ and ‘stickybeaks’ to enchant this book itself!
    “The downside to being able to see the whole village from the church spire was that you could see the church spire from most anywhere in the village.”
    A sort of bird’s eye view for this book, and a flashing light at night at the top betokening a ghost? Those of us young’uns with easy enticing speech to match, especially mine as narrator. And it would all be ever so exciting, if it did not turn out so serious. More ashes no doubt of one of us, ashes from a crematorium to match those in the previous story…
    “and wondering what the payback is for the person who didn’t do anything, really, but didn’t do the right thing, either.”
  11. Reunion

    “Corona lemonade from a stippled bottle”
    Do you remember the metal strap thing that you forced into place to keep the stopper in the neck? And that sort of keeps the bubbly bubbly or the past in position, I guess.
    Well that may or may not be relevant to this short gem of a story, with this middle-aged man chequered in love throughout his life being at a work conference and by chance meeting again his childhood sweetheart after parting forever as it were when 11 years old. The unstoppered backstory of this ‘affair’ has a genuine suspenseful moment you won’t forget and if I told you something else, that would be a spoiler. Even saying that about something else risks being a spoiler.
    A non-connected work as a fine ‘bonus track’ intermission within this book’s (perhaps spurious) gestalt? Well, yes, and more. But it does also seem to have some possible instinctive premonition of future bullseyes to aim for or a memory of life’s old traps in this book to unload and reset.
  12. Not an intermission after all, but a watershed towards a new gestalt…
    Or garage.

    The Dark Instruments

    “That something’s out of place.”
    “It’s a coincidence, that’s all.”
    “It’s not safe.”
    The reveal of this work — a story as mannered experience of things just perfectly put in place — has suspense just like the previous one, as well as two characters meeting up again after knowing each other as children. Two men now war-raddled and old, pullmen or aickmen, weak-kneed or stubborn, yet one of them at least (‘you’) is positive about future dreams – dreams of righting wrongs, perhaps as a form of magic fiction as realism? Sometimes one has to cross ethical barriers to do so, as ends over means? Just in case, and as another version of keeping ‘safe’, I will not tell you here the nature of this story’s central reveal. But it involves a bird’s eye view somehow echoing the one earlier in this book.
  13. And after that, “Light streamed through the stained glass window”, streamed from…


    “The monks arrived through a hole in time on a cold, misty morning, transported via a warp in space that mangled the frequencies of past and present.”
    And later via a time cannon. I am an Essex man through and through and so this scenario fitted well into this feverishly ultra-rich tactility of teeming-worded fantasy around the River Roding and mentioning a skyline to be snarled at if but one of the many skylines that Essex hoards, and dog noises named after the story’s more Londonish end of Essex…
    Here a Wandering Tongue and equally rampant Jesus figurine are part of this Barking Abbey scenario of time- and body-morphing Monks, with their erotic as well as other mundane and spiritual machinations to gawp at. Neck wounds and animal traps from previous scenarios in this book. Jabuticaba fruit, too. Ending with an eventual diaspora from the Abbey fantasy into the streets and fields we know as Essex, including Asda, my nearest supermarket. Even a church tower whence to view it all. And I finished this work well-synaesthesised! An interesting component in this book’s ‘symphony’, a word used in this work.
    My earlier review of this author’s ‘Outtakes’:
  14. Treats

    CED15D7F-25C3-4242-8A24-8619AC540FE4“It was one of those sneaky summer days, one that lounges around a chilled August, making a wild and unpredictable cameo, hoodwinking you into knits, swindling you out of sandals.”
    A very stylish, poignant, generous, sometimes pathetic and put-upon, and empathisable portrait of Elaine throughout her life so far (height, increasing weight, depleting husband, youth-to-menopause and further perhaps, her heart lifted if temporarily by a piece of fruit left on her car, creaking violas &c.) a portrait as if through her own eyes, assessing it all from a central gestalt of self as if a condensed spectrum of time above her life’s path ….like a self as ‘bird’s eye view’. But in the end not a bird’s so much as a goldfish’s whose round and round the bowl provides a perfect last sentence. Above all, stylish.
  15. The Wind Calling

    “I still can’t live in a house, something to do with walls, one room leading to another, so you can’t get out.”
    Slices of life evocatively told by a girl, about herself and her wandering odd job and sometimes fruit-picking family, her dad, her first love, countryside, her siblings, comings and goings, one brother going away further than the others, rosaries, new meetings, memories coming back, hopes built and dashed. Life is a fruit but also a fruit-picker itself? An odd job we do as well as working at its own odd job of us? We life’s own fruit, its own odd jobs. All fruit decays in the end, I suppose. Especially windfalls. All jobs dry up. “I sat on my nails so as not to bite them,” nor for those nails to gouge life into even smaller slices? Maybe some of that is not necessarily in the story. But the whole of such stories is certainly in us.
  16. Ariel

    “, and with practised nonchalance, kick up the prop-stand and swing astride.”
    And this relatively brief fable is the perfect companion to the previous work, one more story to add to the grist that is in us all even if you weren’t there with me in Beatles Sixties Britain to start off with. The narrator hero-worships the slightly older man when the latter buys his first motor-bike, the narrator being not so much a sluggish Caliban to his hero’s fast Ariel, but those of us who are slower can still win the race eventually. Unless the other one wins by knowingly cheating? A fabulous story that is in us all, as I say. Roight, wack?
    From Ariel, to my review of this author’s Puck:
  17. 9AD0A93A-F7A6-4FED-BC2F-B7907B9BD9DBI read and reviewed the next story in January 2017 and below is what I wrote about it in that context
    IS-AND by Claire Dean
    “There are old patterns to follow.”
    And the patterns for my eventual gestalt started off as – hmm, yes, a workmanlike narration, nice touches, but is this another run-of-the-mill child changeling story on an island beset with even older patterns than my own? Thankfully, I was left with significantly more than simply what it said. I will leave you to decide what that is.B9584694-E1B1-4644-9E8E-16ED67D75C3C
    In the same way as the female protagonist needed a dictionary for her boy friend’s shrugs – having come with him to this island where he had lived originally with his mother and where he had once entered a now broken marriage – I also needed a special decoder for this story’s own diffidence. The mis-addressed package that had awaited his return to the island. More shrugs and redactions. His mother’s behaviour and whether there are more child-like novelties to activate if I fully unwrap it or fill in the gaps of both title and text.
    My reviews of Claire Dean’s ‘Bremen’ and ‘The Unwish’:
  18. I am often staggered by the sort of synchronicities fecundated by the practice of gestalt real-time reviewing. Earlier this afternoon, before reading the next story (below) in this book, I read and reviewed one entitled ‘The One Who has Lost Herself’ here about fitting a self back in their lost skin, someone like a fish out of water, seeking that habitat again….and here now seems to be the exact inverse of that earlier story’s process, including gender and bodily change and direction of travel…

    This Skin Doesn’t Fit Me Any More

    ‘Jackdaws are one of my favourite birds,’ he says, ‘really bright. Not as threatening as crows or rooks, or as noisy and aggressive as magpies.’
    And so, now, there are more birds for this book including a mauled goose that are the accoutrements surrounding the arrival, in the family home (father and mother and their two boys), of a mounted stag’s head with specifically itemised antlers which is then placed on the landing outside a boy’s bedroom, a mounting that he can see from his bed, followed later by the scalding rite of passage into puberty that bathtime later brings him. Cause and effect or not, I am constructively unsure which of the various items above is the objective-correlative of the others….and, whatever the case, it is an engaging, thoughtful work that still resonates even as I write this about it.
  19. Words and Things to Sip

    “Life is so damn hectic, especially the inner life. The dead and the undead. And thoughts of Anne and myself, our relationship.”
    This is an astonishingly hectic, clever-clever, god-God, stream of soliloquy on paper or to oneself, as if from a blend of Denis Diderot, Laurence Sterne and Samuel Beckett, in a modern tone with modern terms, clipped and anti-adverbial and subversive of normal prose, as he soliloquises awaiting Anne in a bar where he worries they don’t think he is a regular – or that they do.
    Not really expecting Anne, but thinking of her and the other women in his past life (including his daughter he had with his first and now dead wife), his job, his rebellion against that job, and the flavour of crisps he has not yet thought about asking Anne after she arrives. And, alongside much else that characterises this soliloquiser but I can’t cover here (or remember at all, as it has all just sped through my eyes hectically without conscious grab even if it stayed, with the earlier birdcall éclat of Rosalind Brown, in my unconscious literary sump), it is not this book’s earlier fruit but his penis when he thinks… “It just said cut, cut is cut, sliced is sliced and severing is, of course, severing,…”
    “The only reliable method of knowledge is literature.”
  20. Waves

    “, sleep is the old reliable.”
    I wish that were the case when you get older. I surf dozing dreams now, never sleep. This is a short, well-textured, grammatically unsubversive prose piece, another soliloquy, this one, though, by a single unselfish-conscious narrative remove, a remove that is sickness rather than narrative point-of-view dislocation, while somehow retaining a will of mind over matter, of fighting against bodily illness, and the imposed sleep that medics apply, and it all takes on its own “pure heft” itself, as I think through it, remembering alongside the self in the text surfing in Hawaii as he once did in real life, as we all do surfing, figuratively at least, until the very end. The earlier ‘Sea in Me’, or me in sea? Another sealskin to fit the self in? Another skin that does not fit me any more.
  21. Language

    “….looking with something akin to lust at all those bones that protruded out of girls at school; the solipsism of legs and arms, the buds of them.”
    The story of the relationship, from scratch at school, via puppy fat, then back to scratch, of the heavy devotion between Nora and Harrow. The above solipsism attained, but you will never guess how. You might say this book has left the best to last, and, following the previous WAVES, we now have Nora’s “wave-making thighs” and her “Then she said: well, yes. Me too.” in happier circumstances of Me Too than those in our modern world. These two also live ostensibly in our modern world, though, but a world where death do us part but perhaps not forever, as it were, as their particles are entangled, and the word ‘partial’ seems part and parcel of some tactile language between them that paradoxically both bolsters them and attenuates them necessarily for the story — and aptly also the book as gestalt — eventually to finish…
    A language where the words’ letters’ appendages themselves are sharper than bones. Words and things to sip.
    “The mass of him: his hands were the size of books flattened open.”
    My previous review of this author here: ‘A Heavy Devotion’, where I wrote about it: “most intriguing Weird fiction for which I thank this book for bringing to my attention. Before its language escapes, too?”
    This book’s a marvel, my optimum taste, at a stretch. Now hawled open at last.

Friday, February 16, 2018

The Egotist – Philip Fracassi

21 thoughts on “The Egotist – Philip Fracassi

    “I make up stuff to make it sound better than it is, and forget things that don’t matter.”
    Narrator and reviewer, alike?
    Hey, arrogance is in the act of writing this, unnecessarily explaining you are arrogant, a twenty-something man starting his life story at that point, picking-up a forty-something woman in a Latte bar after telling her that women in general are only needed for childbirth… and since when was Penthouse porn and who would want to create a literary protagonist or narrator with a favourite composer as Tchaikovsky?
    A Gass of a start. But I’ve left things out and changed others.
    “I realize that if I’m going to succeed in this hegemonic world of Corporate America, I am going to have to learn some humility and play by the rules.”
    We follow W. Buhner in his post-caddie attempts to transcend the budding Ligottian Corporate Horror and White House Porn. Selling out, he submits to a job interview from “a scary plastic boy”, flirts with Karen or Sharon, shares a P.O. Box scam with his friend…
    “Donnie was standing at his station amongst the line of cashiers at the bookstore, ringing up some punk kid’s horror book, not really overly agitated by anything going on around him – with the exception of the store’s music system, which was currently piping Swan Lake throughout the store, and he hated Swan Lake.”
    Seems appropriate to fully quote that in view of what Fricassee was due to start writing in the late Twenty-Tensies. “The Cooperation of the Unnamed” …. and in view of the “redundant notes” of Swan Lake’s composer, already factored into some ‘pee-paranoiac’ gestalt of literature stemming from this witty book so far. And the ethics of duplication…
    “— like Stephen King, who lives in some bizarre home in Maine of all places. Who the hell’s scared of Maine? You know his kids are creepy.”
    The Apocalyptic Emotion
    “‘Who’s keeping track of everything?’ I shout. I’m so overwhelmed . . . so tired. I can’t keep it up, I can’t keep track. I can’t keep counting.”
    “There’s too much . . . too much.”
    “I shut my eyes tight and think about the blue sky, or a piece of white paper, or the pure simplicity of a glowing triangle with its clear, pointing indication that only says up or down – depending on which floor I need to go to.”
    I home in on the above three quotes (among many others) from this first brief section of BOOK THREE as it seems to me to be a prophetic apotheosis – in itself an example of what this narrative outburst is describing! – a prophetic apotheosis (from when it was written about twenty years ago) of todays’s vastly increased inundation of information and communication, fake news and fake fake news, ad absurdum. You and me.
    Just change ‘emotion’ above to ‘emoticon’ as I initially misread it to be!
  4. BOOK THREE (rest of)
    “Friends can certainly be burdensome.”
    “I have rarely felt such power, and it’s usually only after tearing down another individual.”
    “Freedom is choiceless, tasteless, and baseless. It has no value, and it is incomprehensible. Do not take it for granted, never forget it exists. Most importantly, always keep one good eye on what it’s doing, because you never know where or with whom its loyalties will ultimately lie . . . silky bitch.”
    “I laugh in the face of my employer, I ride the highest crescendo of a thousand violins, each playing Tchaikovsky’s “Pathetique” on strings of silver, their stinging notes shredding the thin paper-like walls of the brotherhood, this facade. I am invincible!”
    “….and I’d rather just live in the fantasy world that all of these idiots aren’t really people at all, but ficticious names who have emerged from the pure earth to send us encouragement, after which they sink back down into their dirty depths. It’s silly, I know.”
    Life is like. War, lonely and tired, like WB’s Uncle ‘Vietnam veteran’ Fredo….or it’s like WB’s? I cannot resist tracing WB’s choice of his own set of Austerine paths, tracing it via some of the actual words he uses. Quotes, that is, from words written by WB in an era twenty years ago as political correctness took reign and rein, waiting for a Trump to dispel it? Or to reconfirm a country’s gun laws? Or a Rameau’s Nephew like WB, to laugh at it all and exploit. Even his friend. ha ha ha.
    I think this is shaping up to be another Diderot. He at least forgave me for quoting so much from his books.
    “There is no known explanation for this mysterious interval in literary time.”
    I cannot explain how editorialised I now feel. Lifted and let down at the same time. WB once mentioned (earlier quoted by me) a “silky bitch”, now he meets two of them in real life, one girl with a silky sleek bitch of a swanky car, in contiguity with his disowned Dad in a disowned family, then another girl in equal but different contiguity with his disowned family (disowned in favour of self as ‘me’.) Yes, I feel let down and lifted by turns. “Curiosity peaked” or curiosity piqued? Straw-maker, snip ‘n’ save (in earlier PART) and a fracrazy PC writing of an anti-PC hero, who spent his youth watching whatever films came up in his Dad’s cinema, yes whatever films! And then we meet his two crazy sleek bitches. Not sure the ‘me’ we meet – for whom WB told us he was devoting his life to the exclusion of all else – is the same narrative ‘me’ whom we are due to follow in the trailered ensuing PARTS? This book – or, rather, its narrative – is a bit of a two-timing bitch in itself, I suggest. Don’t trust it a sneaky inch. Piqued. 4 3 2 1.
    “It feels good to be alone. When I’m forced to work, I’m surrounded constantly by people. Touching me, patting me, talking to me. It’s disgusting. It’s these times I enjoy the best, these times when I’m secluded from the outside world. My curtains are drawn, the lights are dim, and it’s so very quiet.”
    “It’s my belief that society has to be addicted to something to survive. If it’s not money, it’s murder. If it’s not cigarettes, it’s rape.”
    “John Liggins is a lawyer, and tonight he is me, and I am he.”
    People can’t touch, can’t pat you, these days.
    Which 4321 WB path are we really on? The sociopathic one with ‘dimestore whores’. And using the expression “fratboy symbol”. A WB worrying about annoying his apartment neighbours. I recognise a time when PC must have written all this – when one COULD escape the fake social media of the world that was only then in the bud, if at all – and the obsessions of virtue signalling did not prevail. Still it was an incipient, role playing rifeness, but images were in the look (combed or caveman) when, say, in a bar not when on Twitter.
    And this PART’s closing scene with statue sister should go down in literary history. Really.
    “, I sense the Humungous is near. Therefore, I must write with the greatest speed because I know that at any moment, my next word could be my last.”
    Ending amid a nonsense of a billion sentences? Except these sentences are not nonsense nor even useless, but a symptom of that pee-paranoia I mentioned in this review before (he can’t pee here in front of his newly deprisoned Donnie Lemus scammy cohortationer).
    “I wonder what John Liggins would think of old Lemus, and I begin to ponder bringing the two of them together.”
    The Humungous here is described in the most stirring terms as what now seems symptomatic of our world today, twenty years after this book was written
    Then WB has an unannounced dream, at first geared as reality, a dream infiltrated into or rejected straight out of TEST PATTERNS (a simultaneous reading and review I happen to be real-timing here:, a dream like a certain form of SF fiction with violent green-horned things and flying-saucers and human cohortationers, not the more realistic, nail-biting “horror novel” P. fra Cassi himself is now probably in the process of writing. He is the One.
    This stuff also makes me, like WB, want to be me and me only. It’s good for the Egotist side of me forging a gestalt from my own brain where you all live but perhaps not good for my Id-amenability to those social and creative repressions otherwise oozing inside to get me.
    But better Fowles’ Nemo than either Id or Ego, I suggest.
    “My libido is swarming like African bees, and the honey is dripping between us.”
    “It’s the kind of rubbish dumb people just might buy.”
    I am beginning to know more about how WB ticks, but I remain suspicious, not about his wayward advances to women and them to him, nor suspicious about his attitude to Lemus whose ‘crap’ book about prison can be exploited, WB thinks, for the masses – as fiction. Also the fracas with his sister and sister’s boy friend, a sort of jealousy on WB’s part, and I can follow the realistic audit trail – via some very interesting thoughts on the concept of pain and of childbirth – leading to his hospitalisation after the sister’s boy friend stabs him. But to be hung upside down in the hospital so his wounds will heal better! Do they REALLY do that in hospitals, I ask myself? Something still going on that makes me suspicious.
    “and frisbees are all secondary to pain.”
    “think birth is a kind of work pain. The same kind of pain a person would feel if they had been hauling cement in a wheelbarrow”
    “If the child only knew what lay ahead of it, I’m quite sure the shock of the entire experience would utterly stop its peanut-sized little heart.”
    “I am that one. I stand alone.”
    Not really seen the word ONE before in ALONE, but it does make sense that it should be so. And Paul McC wrote Dear Prudence in the White Album for Mia Farrow’s sister. But that has no connection with this novel, other than that there is a passing reference in it to the White Album.
    “So now I’m crippled, bored, and broke. Horray for me.”
    Lemus makes money with the crap book. Money runs the world, WB suddenly complains to us. Chip on the shoulder, he has spent two years shelf stacking. Did you know that? Hope that is not a spoiler? It is for me a bit of a spoiler. Even the expression “stack-friendly” is ironic. And WB, if he is to be believed, is fast becoming the ultimate spiteful hypocrite. A spite that may lead to mischief that in itself may one day allow him to write his own crap prison book! Thinking aloud.
    A description of Aisles in a supermarket is another one for the annals of literary history. An Aisle is an Isle, too, that Aloneness, Oneness…
    “Enjoy your stay on Planet Death spooky green thing!”
    “It is a dark, dark place within a dark, dark world.”
  10. Pingback: W. Buhner – WNP Barbellion | DES LEWIS’ GESTALT REAL-TIME REVIEWS Edit
  11. BOOK TEN SURRENDER (first half)
    Black Bring It On
    “Was this W. Buhner, did I live at such-and-such address, was I the son of such-and-such?”
    A good question, which WB 4321 path are we on? Hanging upside down? An Ego that is forged on an Altar not an Anvil? A demon or angel? He receives seemingly devastating news, changing emotions as that news seems to crystallise into fact, ups and downs, and deepening spites, a Joycean epiphany that involves the characters so far named in this write-of-passage called a life. A gestalt of writers: Denis Diderot, William Gass, Paul Auster, WNP Barbellion and others I have not yet identified, but above all himself (as a future acclaimed horror writer?)
    “There are plots against it, dark thrusts of treachery which will disrupt its sweet path with their own, secretive agenda.”
    “To replace his ego with loss?”
    “and other plots to unfold.”
  12. D4E01648-DD8B-4F0D-AB7A-45CE1D8D3847BOOK TEN (second half)
    Conversations and Loneliness The Tango
    “I call it a ficticious head because it is impossible for anyone to ever speak the real truth, to tell the real story.”
    If only we had read this novel when it was first published, we may have heeded its implicit warnings by dint of its ficvicious counterintuition and avoided today’s convulsions, including the latest one this week in America. Trump himself. Even Brexit as a spasm of rage. AB20981C-5E4A-4B82-9207-E85C1465CD4AAs we may have done if we had also read Omensetter’s Luck by Gass. We may have been able to inherit the Altar Ego not the Anvil One and transcended the contiguity of the opposing swans in ballet. (Despite the trite melodies.)
    And we may have addressed the interface of Gestalt and Egostalt.
    The bodily cross-rhythms of dancing the tango. (No tangos in Tchaikovsky?)
    Maybe it is not too late.
    “One mind thinks the greatest of all, and time spent developing the thoughts of one mind is time spent very well.”
    “You must create your own happiness by spending your life destroying so many others, and you must consider yourself honest only once you have mastered the lie.”
    “I am a giant freak dog.”
    From the Urban Cruiser Pilgrimage to talk of pragmatics about death, WB finances the child in the sororal vessel. The sororal catalyst. Did I mention Mia Farrow’s sister earlier in this review and now Rose is short for Rosemary as ignited by Blake? Think about it. Exactly what or who is WB effectively financing with his late father’s money? I shock myself sometimes. As WB does, as WNPB does, as Stephen Dedalus does. And the hero of 4321.
    A gun and a cabal and a warehouse fire to shorten the life of this book, a shortening now thwarted by this electronic version 20 .years later! And now me, with this review, perhaps I become part of that audit trail, of the plot itself? At least I fear that I am drawn into some horror plot, as it was due to turn out? Part of the gestalt working out at last. Yet saying all that in public here makes me fear too that I may be even more an egotist than WB! Actually, I thought the book ended with the tenth book or PART. A different sort of shortening! With the last two books being just aberration – or subterfuge? If it had ended with the tenth book, the shortened novel might now be a literary standard taught in all schools, as perhaps it should be, even now.
    “I think it might be best if we decide right here and now who’s going to win and who’s going to lose. It might spare a lot of bloodshed and save us all a lot of time,”
    “I sit inside my head and listen to all the voices,”