He drinks, he gambles, he obsesses over his emotions, and he sleeps. Occasionally he writes.
Annihilation Songs – Jason DeBoer
The syntax of struggle does not prevail.
Imagine Wanting Only This – Kristen Radtke
Part of what had excited me was something that doesn’t usually make for compelling criticism, that is, I had found IMAGINE WANTING ONLY THIS to be relatable.
If one must confess, they should do so intelligently. They must interrogate their own confession.
Such Small Hands – Andrés Barba
SUCH SMALL HANDS is a slender book that falls into that other category: a tidily executed project, one with tremendous tonal intimacy and rhythmic language.
Carter succeeds in creating a lush but airless environment in which the anxieties of “adulting” — finding direction, meaning, maintaining a home — are amplified to crippling effect.
The Necro-Luminescence of Pink Mist – Ed Steck
Escher-like decompositions of selves, objects, bodies, places, and moments congeal baroquely, but there is nothing speculative or futuristic to this world. In fact, the world of PINK MIST feels chillingly contemporary.
Tea’s writing is queer in that it questions everything.
Eve Out of Her Ruins – Ananda Devi
I looked up from the fever dream of this Troumaron world to recognize myself in Kuala Lumpur, feeling like something is being sucked out of me.
House Mother Normal – B.S. Johnson
I am constantly conflicted with Johnson. Is he a successful experimental author because of or in spite of his formidable ability to spin a yarn?