My new review is up on PANK, and the book itself was a cracker, not one I would have picked up but for that acute title and the sense that something good must be in it (it’s published by the same press which is involved in the making of Hobart Journal, which is always intriguing). Some of the text in the first quote in the review is revealed when it should be struckout, just so no one’s confused when they read the review.
Experimental Fiction. What comes to mind when you read or hear these words? For me they conjure up feelings of eager apprehension, similar to walking into a free exhibition at a small, untested art gallery.
Dissonant music begins to play. There is a dark room with a video installation griddled with distortions playing, but you noticed that odd man going in there by himself, and you perhaps want to wait till he’s done. There’s that kind unplaceable feeling of pressure. You must take your time, but it’s an uncomfortable place to linger. There’s all this space, or perhaps none at all, and nothing in the design lets in the air or the light.
Perhaps intense reactions of claustrophobia to books aren’t felt by everyone?
At any rate, I was nervous.