Totoro

I want a Totoro! Now, just to find a secret passage-way under a bush and fall through a hole in a tree onto his stomach!


I've only seen six of the nineteen studio ghibli movies. This needs to be sorted out this summer. But hopefully the overwhelming cuteness doesn't affect my character too much ;)

Blueprints.

The road I'm on right now - quite literally through the bowels of Milton.
(Click on the thumbnails for a better view)

Hopefully this doesn't somehow constitute academic misconduct.

Milton.

...time may come when men
With angels may participate, and find
No inconvenient diet, nor too light fare:
And from these corporeal nutriments perhaps
Your bodies may at last turn all to spirit...
(5.494-97)

After about three months of no concentrated Milton, I decided that today was the day that 'work' (an English Literature degree is never really 'work' is it - and anyone who says it is, is taking themselves too seriously) was going to happen. Thankfully, it did. Up at 8, and to work at 10, my productivity only impeded by a man doing horrible phlegmy coughs on the other side of the room, and a (most likely homeless) man asleep, mouth wide open, snoring. Luckily someone must have complained, because a young lady quickly came to wake him up, and whispered a few cautionary words to him. It was only then that he produced a blue polyethalene bag, and began to eat spring onions out of it. Bizarre.

Anyway, that's all beside the point really. It seems slightly ridiculous to be writing to the world (wide web) about my fairly mundane trip to the library. Maybe I'm writing this because I'm somehow proud of myself, in a more than pathetic way, for having actually done something, other than reading for pleasure, or breaking out of my usual trend of getting to the library in order to boycott work in favour of reading other books. It comes as a relief to me that I finally seem to have an idea. It was only last night that I was moaning to a friend about my 'hopeless' situation. But I think I have something. The quality of which is debatable, but it is an idea, it can be worked on. Obviously I don't want to broadcast my whole idea on the internet, but it centers around the digestive processes (both mental and alimental) which operate within Paradise Lost, on various levels. Hence the quote above. My notes are littered with these little diagrams of stomachs and cosms with annotations within them. I wish I could take a picture of them, they look pretty cool. (If I do say so myself). It's also pretty entertaining to be reading about such childishly funny things like poo and farting. And Milton's own view on these things, as poo and farting are topics which (believe it or not) are worryingly common in his collected works. It is most explicitly mentioned in De Doctrina Christiana, but you can also find references to both of these things in Areopagitica, Lycidas, and of course in Paradise Lost.

I decided a few weeks ago to do a Milton tour around London (NERDY I KNOW) and visited the site of his old house in Bread Street, now the site of imposing glass office blocks, St. Paul's where he was taught and bought his books, and also Whitehall where he worked for many years of his life. I wish I could say that seeing the places that constituted Milton's world were in some way remarkably inspiring, but unfortunately, that was not the case. Although after re-reading parts of the poem today I think I have re-entered a 'love' phase, which is good for work. I just hope that the 'hate' phase doesn't swing around too soon behind it. The more I read of it, the more I feel that it is most definitely a poem to be tackled in small sections. Really small sections. Ideally probably no more than 50 lines in an evening. But obviously at this stage time won't allow for that. I wonder if there's some kind of 'Read Paradise Lost in a year' scheme, like they do with the bible. That'd be good. I always worry that I'm going to ruin my enjoyment by having to read big sections in short periods of time.

Nothing else to report.
Hopefully I can get something on paper soon.

To quote Satan himself:

"...Nor think thou with wind
Or airy threats to awe whom yet with deeds
Thou canst not..."
(6.282-84)

Seems pretty relevant in considering what I've just done - talking rubbish about my essay for which I have very little to show.

Darkness Implacable - Cormac McCarthy's 'The Road'

"No lists on things to be done. The day providential to itself. The hour. There is no later. This is later. All things of grace and beauty such that one holds them to one's heart have a common provenance in pain. Their birth in grief and ashes"

After having seen Cormac McCarthy's name bouncing around for the last few years, on numerous lists of 'best 21st century novels', award winning fiction, and perhaps most tellingly lists of 'modern classics', I began to pay attention. Not to mention after hearing about the recent film adaptation of The Road and seeing the adaptation for film of No Country For Old Men in 2008. So, when I came face to face (numerous times) with cheap editions of The Road in charity shops and online, I figured it was meant to be. It was almost as if the book were following me, begging me to read it. (Okay maybe that's bullshit, I just saw it a few times and thought why not?). But all I can say is thank you phantom stalking book. I think I could safely say that The Road has become a new favourite, and is certainly a keeper. One which will remain on my bookshelf for a long time (and which I already have an itching desire to re-read).

As I've come to realise, after reading No Country for Old Men and All The Pretty Horses, The Road marks a departure from McCarthy's usual nouveau-'wild-west' topical field. The Road, then, somewhat uncharacteristically is a dystopian and post-apocalyptic vision of a new America. The novel contains only two main characters, who are referred to as simply 'man' and 'boy'. We follow them on their journey for survival across a barren palimpsestic America, never gaining knowledge of the events whose aftermath cause an annihilation of almost the whole population of America, and for a perpetual snow of ash to rain over the country. As well as simply finding food and clothing remaining from 'old' America, the duo must also face the challenge of avoiding and fighting off other human beings who, in desperation, have resorted to cannibalism. The novel bleakly details the journey of a man and his son along the road. A never-ending road which must be travelled for sustenance and safety.Though do not be mistaken, the bleakness of this journey is not completely overwhelming. Amongst the hopelessness and wretchedness of the post-apocalyptic monochrome America that McCarthy creates, both man and boy show a tenderness towards each other which (astoundingly) defies their awful situation. The massive contrast between outer darkness and inner warmth makes The Road a novel which is capable of creating for itself an air of being in some way 'epic' and a depth of emotional charge which is often surprising considering the minimal character development.

The Road is a novel which could be argued to be much more socially and politically 'contemporary' than McCarthy's other novels, in its capitalisation upon the post 9/11 mindset and the 'era' of terror. Although the fear of mutually assured destruction and the tradition of post-apocalyptic literature reaches back some sixty-five years now, since the first use of the atomic bomb, the arms race that followed, and the Cuban missile crisis in '62. The Road's warning of a barren, empty post-apocalyptic America, as we sit on the brink of a second nuclear era, seems to have become increasingly relevant in the last four years since it was published. As previously stated The Road is somewhat an anomaly in Cormac McCarthy's otherwise testosterone filled tales of life in the deep south. What starts out as a simple tale of two men travelling along a road, gradually blossoms into an emotionally intense and shatteringly beautiful piece of literature.

The text itself is wonderfully crafted in a way which is reminiscent of both Beckett and Coetzee in style and tone (and maybe even content with Beckett). What is striking about McCarthy as an author is the economy with which he utilises his words. It is a text, which in true Coetzee-an style, can at times seem deceptively plain and simple, but is constructed in a way that it expresses a lot more than it can ever be said to let on. Whilst using these frugally concise-yet-complex sentences, McCarthy uses two of Beckett's (arguably) most characteristic literary traits, these being the one word sentence, and his re-arranged syntax, which manipulates the manner and the order in which meaning is released, and constructed. We are confronted with this particular trait in the second sentence of The Road where McCarthy remarks upon the "nights dark beyond darkness and the days more gray each one than what had gone before". The style works well, for McCarthy’s purpose, and serves to highlight the disorder of the 'new life' deserving of a new modified language, and also increases a feeling of uneasiness and vulnerability in the reader, firstly from reading disjointed thoughts, and secondly for the perilous position of ‘man’ and ‘boy’. McCarthy’s one word sentences complement this occasional awkwardness of syntax by creating this punchy 'that’s all there is' feeling. It would be unfair, though, to deride McCarthy's own creation by apportioning his literary achievement to those who have come before him, and not giving him credit for his own endeavouring individuality of style. (A style which rather strangely results in the omitting of apostrophes and speech marks, which can be confusing). Whilst the novel could be labelled as Beckettian in tone, and Coetzee-an in style, it retains a sense of distinct 'American-ness' in a way which seems to function far beneath the text, but is somehow unplaceable.

Nevertheless what is striking about The Road is the sparseness of anything, be it within the actual events of the novel, or within the speech of the characters, (the majority of speech between the boy and man comes in one word entries), or even in the punctuation of the novel, commas reserved for special occasions. McCarthy favours the dead full stop, creating a sense of emptiness and desolation which can be physically portrayed in the text itself, in contrast to the lengthy comma-less sentences which seem in some way to be physically representative of the never-ending road which the duo must travel. It has been a long time since a novel has been capable of making me feel so many things with seemingly so little effort. There were times when I was scared, tense, and even just plain upset. What McCarthy has created on retrospect in The Road is incredibly impressive, considering the plain, dark and empty style. For something so flat on the surface to create something so emotionally contoured on the inside has surprised me. And it is because of this, and its deliciously dark bouts of description that it is a novel which I am sure to re-read soon. And indeed, one deserving of a hearty 5 stars in my books.

This country will kill you in a heartbeat and still people love it.

My new friend. His name? Cormac McCarthy. I am addicted.

I've only read The Road and No Country For Old Men, but they we're both really very good. Gonna be searching for cheap editions of his novels in the next few weeks. Maybe I'll pick up a new one tomorrow - perhaps Blood Meridian or All The Pretty Horses. His novels are so readable and page-turnery but also good, not shit, no no, good. Really gripping, with punchy speech, and highly plot driven, but also very American. I ended up making pages of quotes and notes on The Road. It is so deliciously dark. Maybe I will bombard you with some of the quotes here, you unsuspecting little things. Hehehe. Okay, here are my favourites. I'll only put two in. Just want to share the love. (I would try and persuade everyone around to how great NCFOM was as well by doing this if it wasn't completely and utterly unquotable- n.b. the title of this post is actually a quote from the book. Maybe I exaggerated the truth a little there. There is one quote of worth. Enjoy it.)

This first quote is the first three sentences of the novel
"When we woke in the woods in the dark and the cold of the night he'd reach out to touch the child sleeping beside him. Nights dark beyond darkness and the days more gray each one than what had gone before. Like the onset of some cold glaucoma dimming away the world."

Numero Duo!
He walked out in the gray light and stood and he saw for a brief moment the absolute truth of the world. The cold relentless circling of the intestate earth. Darkness implacable. The blind dogs of the sun in their running. The crushing black vacuum of the universe. And somewhere two hunted animals trembling like ground foxes in their cover. Borrowed time and borrowed world and borrowed eyes with which to sorrow it."

Maybe I’ll write a review of it soon, and then put a shiny hyperlink right here (____here it is____) when it’s done so people can click away. I think I will. Yeah, I’ll do that.

Feel like I haven't posted on here in a long time. Can't say there's any reason for that. Apathy perhaps? Or maybe I've realised I simply have. nothing. to. say. I don't think it's that though. I think in reality I've been too absorbed in reading things to give a second thought to this blog, or its function of keeping me sane over the holidays. I think all the reading has done me good though. It's made me feel relaxed. Maybe too relaxed. In fact I don't think I've read this many books in such a short period of time since my imprisoning holiday in France two years ago, where the only alternative to complete and utter boredom was complete and utter escapism.

In the last week I've read The Road, and No Country For Old Men. Zeitoun by Dave Eggers - a non-fiction book about one man's experience of Hurricane Katrina told in the style of a novel. It was kinda strange reading non-fiction events in that style. But it worked well. I also read All My Friends are Superheroes, by Andrew Kaufman. I think I spoke about it in my last post. It was complete and utter rubbish. Enjoyable enough to get to the end of, but still undeniably rubbish. Too cutesy. I'm currently three chapters away from finishing Watchmen by Alan Moore. Though I have to admit that my interest is waning. Surely it should be peaking about now? Oh well. As one of Time's best 100 novels I thought I'd better check it out. But it's been disappointing so far. I guess I've not finished it yet though, perhaps I shouldn’t judge. Trying to make myself believe that slowness of plot = deeper character development which will then make the climax even more valuable. Ready to read next I have Bret Easton Ellis' new novel Imperial Bedrooms, let's hope it isn't as awful as his last novel Lunar Park. I threw my copy away it was that bad. Blegh. Part of me is beginning to believe that he is past it now. The novel is supposedly a sequel to his first novel Less Than Zero, I just think that by writing this sequel he might end up shitting all over the success that was Less Than Zero, or inviting a negative comparison between the now aging Bret and the early, creative, teenage Bret.

No other news to report. Until I have to resurface, complete escapism will be the order of the day...


Along with pushing John Milton and that fucking shitting ridiculously painful neverending poem, Paradise Lost to the back of my mind for as long as is humanly and hopefully sensibly possible.

I do solemnly swear

... that I will go to the library tomorrow and think for an hour or two about this essay.

(Only then will I continue to trick myself into believing that reading any books published in the 21st century and written by American authors constitutes 'work')

Just finished Netherland by Joseph O' Neill. I'll post a review as soon as I've given it some thought. Until tomorrow's designated library time I might as well start on the next novel - All My Friends are Superheroes by Andrew Kaufman.

Oh, and, I started using goodreads again. Check it out - www.goodreads.com/garethaleddavies

Blessed & Cursed

I still can't work out whether I prefer the new Devil Sold His Soul album to their last.
Regardless, it's bloody amazing, and I can't stop listening to it!

Job 15:2

Research for my Milton essay seems to be leading on a bizarre trail through the nether areas of the bible, including Job, and the deleted book: The Apocrypha.

Seems like the research for this essay isn't actually as boring as I thought it would be. I even managed to find some pretty cool quotes:

'Should a wise man utter vain knowledge and fill his body with the east wind?'

Snails

Ah, The Format, why did you have to split up?



I am lucky that there is so much good music in my life right now.
Proof ----> click me

Jehovah's Witnesses

On the way home from school after the zoo I got in a fight with Harold Lund. He is a big grease who is friends with Marty Polaski. He ambushed me, which is dirty fighting, man, and jumped on me and pinned me with his knees on my shoulders till Shrubs smashed him in the head with a garbage can and we both ran home.
When I got home the first thing my mom said was "Don't open up your mouth," because my pants were green on the knees from the grass. (They were new, I got them at West's Clothing where they don't have doors on the little rooms and a girl saw my underpants.) "It's a crime," said my mother. "Who beat you up this time?"
"The Jehovah's Witnesses," I said
"What?"
I walked away. She chased me and grabbed my arm.
"Tell me the truth young man," she said.
So I told her. I got run over by a car which was drove by a Jehovah's Witness and he got out and said I wasn't a Jehovah's Witness but I said I was, only he didn't believe me and then we had to arm wrestle and I beat him because he was weak and then a negro came and said I could be a negro if I wanted so I said ok and then the Jehovah's witness got mad and pushed me on the grass and then I came home.
I walked up to my room. My mom yelled "You get back down here and tell me the truth." But I didn't.
(I don't know what a Jehovah's Witness is.I think it's when you wear a sports jacket.)

--- Taken from When I Was Five I Killed Myself by Harold Buten
(so charming!!)

Black Hole - Charles Burns

--Review of Charles Burns'' graphic novel Black Hole - with lots of shiny pictures as promised--

I have to admit that I am somewhat a comic book rookie. In high school I remember the craze of bringing in ultimate spiderman for the 10 minutes of compulsory reading school used to enforce on a wednesday morning. I remember reading a few of these, but never really getting into them. I always disregarded comics as a kind of illegitimate art form. One which could never say anything profound, but was a pass-time of those who found regular novels 'too boring' or inaccessible. Oh, how I was wrong. The first graphic novel I ever read was The Complete MAUS, last christmas. Since then my opinions have changed. But this entry isn't about MAUS, (as much as I would love to sing its praises almost endlessly - it really is great), it is about Charles Burns' graphic novel Black Hole. I picked up Black Hole solely because (like Eeeee Eee Eeee) it is on my postmodern fiction module next term (I am being a good student this time, and getting prepared). I knew nothing about the book before I picked up a very well read copy from the library.

The novel tells the story of a group of teenagers who are affected by a sexually transmitted disease which causes them to physically mutate. These mutations aren't particularly obvious in some cases. One woman grows a tail, another man grows a second mouth towards the base of his neck. They may not be obvious, but they're pretty gruesome nonethteless. The disease can be contracted through either sexual contact, or a mixing of bodily fluids. The one really creepy thing about the bug is that it causes affected characters to shed their skin. The novel follows the actions of two main characters, one male - Keith, and one female - Chris, and switches between the two, offering a sexually balanced tale, a form which works surprisingly well. We experience through the course of the comic how these two characters contract the bug, and the aftermath, which results in them becoming social and physical outcasts who are forced to go to various lengths to either hide themselves or get away from other people.

All of the illustrations are monochrome, like the successful MAUS comics. Burns' style, however is much more clean cut and precise than Speigelman's making many of the panels incredibly impressive and almost vibrant in their contrast. This novel could essentially be classified as horror, or teen horror, or by some as B-horror. The high contrast of images suits this genre so well, because it adds a sense of startling postmodern realism to many of the more graphic scenes (i.e. the skin shedding, but most of which I shouldn't speak about for fear of ruining the book) which you might not get with a more sketchy style. The very realistic drawing style however, combines with a very creative and unconventional ordering of panels. Burns at his most impressive makes use of the seperate panels to depict one area of a whole picture. It is hard to explain in words, but basically you get whole but fragmented images (such as the one directly below). There are also two or three occasions where a very 'rules of attraction-esque' technique is used whereby two halves of two different faces lain side by side make a whole. This creativity also manifests itself in the chapter headings, which are far from conventional, usually consisting of an image of something, mysteriously framed in an expansive black page. (None of the chapters are numbered, and none of the pages are either).

Burns seems very keen (like Tao Lin does in Eeeee Eee Eeee) on not keeping to a completely linear plot development. But whilst Tao Lin completely confuses the order of events in the novel, Burns at least retains a strong sense of direction - his confusion of time comes through the retrospective thoughts of characters, and the gaps of time between the events in each chapter (which we, as readers, in some cases, are encouraged to estimate for ourselves). You find at some points that because of the two interlinking plots, that of Keith's and that of Chris', one will sometimes seem to move faster or have more gaps than the other. Which means that events will take place, and then after the events have taken place, the character will back track on what happens directly before that event, but only after it has been told (I hope that makes sense). The effect is that you are encouraged to re-interpret the information you've been given, and consciously re-order things. Burns doesn't really use this technique to much effect though, it's not as if any assumptions you may make about these characters are overturned by their then retrospective indulgences, in order to perhaps overturn stereotypes the reader may have had, or expectations (though I realise this is very difficult and requires a lot of psychological insight into the reader and their expected thought process whilst reading).

Black Hole is clever in its use of the concept of the sexually transmitted mutation, an idea which could easily have been very cheesy - but Charles Burns does his idea justice (even if it does come across as a bit of an 'in your face' allegory for AIDS). The concept of the bug is manipulated so that it allows the author to enlighten us as to the reasons why one may become a high-school outcast. Many of those who contract the bug become deviant not only because of their disease, but due to their personal natures. It's hard to elaborate further without ruining the plot, but Burns highlights in particular those with bisexual sneaking into homosexual tendencies, and to an extent (and I am wary to say this), those with a tendency towards bestiality. But the novel isn't as skin deep as just correlating physical mutation and the outsider status. It gives us a psychological insight into this status, coming most prominently from the character Dan, a boy who was 'unpopular' in school and forced to leave because of his mutations. There is a lot in there that I haven't yet seen, I'm sure of it. I'll be reading it again in a few weeks when I have had time to think about it in more depth.

From a personal perspective, its one of the most enjoyable things I've read in months (honestly). I had to discipline myself not to read the whole thing in one sitting. Unlike MAUS (excuse my constant references to it) the artwork seems more purposeful. MAUS is almost a comic which relies more on its speech than its imagery (probably a big claim to make). But Black Hole is incredibly different, the artwork and the way it is presented plays an active part in the storytelling process. It is more than a straightforward comic (like MAUS), it actually is a great work of art, and would be a beautiful book to own, even to just look at the pictures (many of them amusingly vaginal - and a selection of which can be seen in my previous blog post on the novel). The story is engaging and the concept is well thought out and executed. As I said, there's a lot in there, from sexual deviance, to critiques on high school shootings, and even the holocaust if you want to push it that far. Mind you, it's not for everyone. If you're not into horror you my want to steer clear. But what strikes me most, and what I'm still most impressed with is the layout of panels and the effects of different types of panels including whole page images, strange zoom effects, and the bizarre portrayal of dreams in comic format. It really is more than your bog-standard comic. I rate it highly.

To those who have questioned my tendency to sporadically delete facebook

"We have become alienated from those aspects of life we might consider authentic or real. While our working lives are still ‘real’ (we go to work and pay the bills) they are not as real as, say, farming or building a ship. Instead we spend most of our time at our desks in front of a computer screen, engaging with symbolic representations rather than real, tangible objects. Much of our leisure time is spent engaging in simulated experiences or consuming more information. Existence has become more ‘virtual’ than real" - Brian Nicols

It just gets too much sometimes y'know . . . I feel like a technology slave. In fact the whole idea of facebook is weird anyway. I might as well start listing my problems with it. I'm sure I'm not the only one who thinks these things. Here we go...

--1) (Excuse my pretentious use of Baudrillard(ian?) terms). The fact that hyper-real internet profiley 'me' becomes more legitimate to some people than 'real' real me.

--2) Facebook is too 1984 - let's face it.

--3) (Excuse ridiculous paranoia) Everything I say on facebook is probably recorded somewhere.

--4) Facebook is a bunch of bored people tricking themselves that everyone else isn't bored, and somehow entertaining themselves by watching the actions of many other bored people (How does that make logical sense?)

--5) I become depressed when I realise that I have a better relationship with certain people under hyper-real facebook identity than I do with them in real life, on a face-to-face basis.

--6) It is not good for my brain to be bombarded with pointless information about the (usually insignificant) minutae of the lives of a group of people. (those I do care about I see in real life) ((Those I don't particularly care about ... I don't particularly care about))

--7) Although I hate the thing it manages to suck me back in over the holiday breaks. Yes, this only deepens my loathing for it. And makes me feel like a weak smack-addicted cretin.

--8) The wall feature conditions everyone to masquerade and put on a show for others. It encourages people to present themselves not as who they are, but who they want to be or what they want to be. Basically people trick each other into what they are really like (see concern 1 in my list).

--9) The wall feature is (excuse more pretentious terms) panoptic (in the Foucauldian sense). Everyone is watching everyone else. Every stays in check, they are conscious of being judged by others (also links to point 8 and 1).

--10) Think of all of the things you could have achieved if you hadn't spent however much time on facebook in your life so far? Doesn't it give you a stomach lurch?

Obviously it's a useful tool for keeping in touch with people who perhaps live in other places or are old friends who have moved on. But for me the cons outweigh the pros. Even if not having facebook does result in me missing out on invites to certain events (probably the one main con of deleting it). Oh yeah, and there's something really dodgy in that facebook won't actually let you delete your account - it can only be 'deactivated'. Somehow once you've joined there is no escape . . . a bit cult-ish really.

Anyway, that's for all the people who have asked me why I keep deleting facebook, and asking me when I'm 'coming back' (sounds weird, as if facebook is a geographical place) on occassion. Unfortunately I am too weak to keep it deleted all the time (I am only a puny mortal). As soon as I get back to Cardiff I feel its horrible itch coming back to me. I guess that's the result of too much time in the house. Oh well. I think I'll delete again next week perhaps... My productivity multiplies exponentially when it's deleted. Even just reading a book or daydreaming is more productive to me than watching a stream of information from a group of people (the majority of whom I don't have a regular functioning close human friendship with). P.s. I'm sure that this -----> Top Ten Reasons You Should Quit Facebook will be interesting to many of you as well. (Though I'm not sure how legit it is).

(It's kind of painful that I'm making these statements writing on an internet blog, which will then be published on facebook...irony sucks. P.S. sorry for any pretentiousness in this blog post.)

Eeeee Eee Eeee

"It's depressing that people are different. Everyone should be one person, who should then kill itself in hand-to-hand combat"

Just finished reading Tao Lin's debut novel Eeeee Eee Eeee. What can I say? It is unlike anything I've ever read before. It is on my reading list for a module I'm taking next term in twenty-first century post-modern fiction. I was surprised to find that Tao Lin is relatively unknown, with a close cult-ish following. I could use many adjectives to attempt to describe this novel - but I'm not sure that any one could do it justice, or that using many would help clarify Eeeee Eee Eeee at all. The novel could be pigeon-holed as being kind of surreally hyper-existentialist. It is almost Beckettian in its minimalism and snapishness. The novel seems to focus (of course you could make a massive claim -probably the most valid one- that there is no focus) on American collective identity through repeated turns of phrase and slang, as well as shared names and a sense of a depressive loss of individuality. By far the most confusing instances in the book (and the most notorious) are the set of unexpected conversations with talking bears, hamsters and dolphins . . . one of which result in a bear named Andrew, and a man named Andrew realising that they share the same name (and therefore identity?) It's a witty novel, without a doubt, with laugh out loud humour which will make you wince with its sarcasm. It is often a confusing read, but nevertheless one which does not leave you feeling out of your depth, or as if you've failed to understand something along the way. You learn very quickly that you just have to accept that that's the way it is. Eeeee Eee Eeee is a difficult novel to review, solely because it has no driven start to finish plot, it has talking animals, and is constructed in such a novel way. To present a plot synopsis would be ridiculous - in fact it would almost defy the way in which the novel is written. Tao Lin's prose is is aware of its fragmentation, and in being aware manages to smooth out the fragments and somehow fit them together into a coherent, flowing and whole piece of work (excuse my mosaic-esque analogy). Time itself is fragmented in the novel. It is only in the closing chapter of the novel, that we find out what happenned in the protagonist (dare I call him one) Andrew's life before the novel began - information which would surely be expected within the first few pages, to introduce us to him. The timeline of the book is indeterminably linear, but it is the indeterminability of its linearity which causes those questions to creep in, and for the rational part of the mind to be tempted to organise and make sense of what comes where, to try to establish a time/space linearity which we expect from most novels.

Needless to say (post-blurb), it is a peculiar novel. But amongst the mayhem, the teleporting bears, the murder of Elijah Wood by a dolphin, and the secret passages which lead to a secret animal world, are concerted criticisms on political apathy, identity loss, herd mentalities, terrorism and depression. Many of the reviews I've read have disregarded it for its alleged art-school pretentiousness. Pretentious or not, it is a novel which is engagingly short, easy to read, and seems to simplify, but still accessorise the genre of bizarro fiction while kind of fitting in with the glossy Generation X writers. I don't know if I'd go as far as labelling it 'literature' or saying that it was particularly enjoyable, or 'good', but it certainly is a breath of fresh air and unlike anything I've read before. (N.B. Just because it's refreshing doesn't mean it isn't strange and sometimes seems disconcertingly self-conscious...in fact Gawker magazine said that he is "perhaps the single most irritating person we've had to deal with" YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED).

I'm sure I'll be reading some of his other stuff as soon as I can get my hands on it anyway. He is certainly an interesting writer, even if I'm not sure what I make of him yet. Eeeee Eee Eeee has really confused me a great deal.

His new novel Richard Yates is released on September 7th (with speed and cunning).
Maybe if I enter enough of the competitions on his FRUSTRATINGLY TITLED BLOG (perhaps testimony to his being irritating), I'll be able to win myself a copy!

Currently Reading

I've never seen so many vaginal images in a comic in my life . . . seriously.

What do you make of this?

Only started it this evening. But the artwork is so crisp, mm. It's good. Makes it infinitely more enjoyable to read than other monochrome comics, like MAUS.

When I'm done I'll be sure to write a review - with lots of those nice shiny crisp screenshots, mmmmmmm.

Still waiting for 'When I was five I killed myself'... Damn you Amazon.

Rock the Bells

Wish I could have moved my trip to New York a couple of weeks forward. So I could have gone to this. Probably the best hip-hop festival lineup I've ever seen. Immortal Technique, A Tribe Called Quest, Jedi Mind Tricks, Lauryn Hill, Wu-Tang Clan, Ill Bill, KRS-One... wow.

When I was five I killed myself...

Bought this a few days ago on impulse. The author, Howard Buten, is a psychologist, violinist, and professional clown, living in France. The novel is written from the perspective of an eight year old child. As a psychologist I wonder how accurate the narrative seems, whether it is flawlessly eight years old, whether there are spelling mistakes, etc. I'm told that the novel itself is also '8 year old size' being one third the conventional width and height of a novel (though it maintains the usual page length of a novel). Strangely the novel has sold over a million copies in France and is relatively unknown in the author's home country (America). Anyway, I wish Amazon would hurry up, and it would arrive! I will have my fingers crossed and be waiting in anticipation of the post-man tomorrow! And then suffer the horrible stomach lurch of disappointment when it doesn't. Come on, pull through for me Amazon!

III

Wake up, groggy, dry mouth. The sound of Fairytale of New York drifts up from below. Somewhere. What the fuck. It's summer for fucks sake. . . what the fuck. Today I'm going to go to the library, I swear on it. It's going to fucking happen. Trust me. But right now there is a pumpkin at the end of my bed. I don't know how it got there. It's so smooth and orange. Like a carrot, but round. And bulbous. I swing my feet out from beneath the covers and then snap them back so they rest above. The pumpkin is so smooth and orange on my feet. It hugs them with its no arms. It is my friend. I pet it with my feet. It feels nice. The pumpkin makes a creaking noise. "I love you" it creaks (or something to that effect). Fibrous and organic. In its own little way. Things get a bit intense and I leave.

Get out of bed. Walk downstairs. Each step moans under my feet. I wince after each one. I apologise under my breath after each one. “Poor souls” I say after each one. Each one seems to shout out to the next one. "Owww ooooh owww, watch out!" A chain of useless warnings. The guilt is consuming. Maybe I should go back to bed. Today is a bad day. Walk to the bathroom. Brush teeth. Usually 72 brushes. Left. Right. Left. Right. Always a problem knowing when to stop. Left or right? Things are uneven and unbalanced whenever I stop. Only one solution. Don’t think about it. Keep brushing. Right. Left. Right. Left. Okay now this is fucking ridiculous. Throw toothbrush on the floor. I can’t remember whether I stopped on left or right. Problem solved. The toothbrush lies on the floor, looking like a murder weapon, a short white toothpaste stain reaches out for it . . .