Thirii Myo Kyaw Myint - History, like light, is porous, multitudinous, endlessly haunted. Names of Light gives form to the unresolved and inaccessible remnants of the past, all of the ghosts that are proliferated just by our moving. We are constantly ghastly and ghostly

 

Thirii Myo Kyaw Myint, Names for Light, Graywolf Press, 2021.

Names for Light traverses time and memory to weigh three generations of a family’s history against a painful inheritance of postcolonial violence and racism. In spare, lyric paragraphs framed by white space, Thirii Myo Kyaw Myint explores home, belonging, and identity by revisiting the cities in which her parents and grandparents lived. As she makes inquiries into their stories, she intertwines oral narratives with the official and mythic histories of Myanmar. But while her family’s stories move into the present, her own story―that of a writer seeking to understand who she is―moves into the past, until both converge at the end of the book.

Born in Myanmar and raised in Bangkok and San Jose, Myint finds that she does not have typical memories of arriving in the United States; instead, she is haunted by what she cannot remember. By the silences lingering around what is spoken. By a chain of deaths in her family line, especially that of her older brother as a child. For Myint, absence is felt as strongly as presence. And, as she comes to understand, naming those absences, finding words for the unsaid, means discovering how those who have come before have shaped her life. Names for Light is a moving chronicle of the passage of time, of the long shadow of colonialism, and of a writer coming into her own as she reckons with her family’s legacy.

“Thirii Myo Kyaw Myint’s acute language casts a constellation of birth-charts, which in turn broadcasts light through the generations of a remarkable family story. Names for light celebrates storytelling’s role in survival without excluding the animating presences of absence and silence. Here, past and present converge, creating a brilliance that lights up the limits of what can be known. A guidebook for every world – above, below, between – Names for light is a stunning achievement.”— SELAH SATERSTROM

“History, like light, is porous, multitudinous, endlessly haunted. Names of Light gives form to the unresolved and inaccessible remnants of the past, all of the ghosts that are proliferated just by our moving. We are constantly ghastly and ghostly, the text reminds us, and the indeterminacy of flesh is the indeterminacy of family and legacy. Thirii Myo Kyaw Myint is one of the most remarkable writers of our time, and Names of Light is a piercing and heartbreaking revelation.”— JANICE LEE

“Thirii Myint’s Names for Light is a reincarnation of Thirii Myint, who is a reincarnation of her great-grandfather, the son of a princess, each version of self a sly haunting. A fairy tale of displacement, this book cradles imagined homes and remapped homelands—unmappable and pure. Myint’s geographies and her syntax will echo inside you like luminous ghosts: opulent and ruthless and profound, like drowned sapphires waiting to be reunited with the wind.”— LILY HOANG

“In sharp, clear-cut prose, Thirii Myo Kyaw Myint refracts the structural violence and long reach of colonialism through the prism of her family’s history. Each page is a lens held up to light and rotated, inspected, and held in mind. A gorgeous book.”— SARAH GERARD

“Thirii is driving an important autobiographical rickshaw into the 21st century. Her task with Names for Light is to be alternative, to use ghosts and reincarnations and Spanish-speaking-Asians as vehicles that hope to break the barrier and drive beyond the grammar of immigrant porn. Her work is obediently exploratory and layered, rich in research and imagination. Thirii’s zany and inventive Names for Light is also designed to challenge one’s concept of immigrant privation: how to make its nuance absence visible and social-emotionally available without succumbing to cliché and memoiristic predictability. Painted not in ash and alternating between first person and third narration, there is so much here Thirii is willing to make visible: emotional ethnic intelligence, Bamar consciousness, high child mortality rates, infidelity that behaves more closely to death, Sittwe, 8888 ayekhin, love missives delivered in a borrowed book, matriarchal sacrifices, Spanish speaking Asians, vomiting ghosts that live in mirrors, weaponized eating disorders, gambling, migraines, maybe Boston, maybe Madrid, maybe South Bend, maybe Providence, a place where no chickens are left behind, a place where imagination and memory get reborn, reincarnated, reenacted, a place where ghosts can pretend to be photographs. As you can see so clearly for all double immigrants: her ambition is snow, snow falling. Let her lead the way. Into the light that is her brother and beyond. ”— VI KHI NAO

 In this hypnotic memoir, Burmese-American novelist Myint (The End of Peril, the End of Enmity, the End of Strife, a Haven) looks to myth and folklore to explore her family’s legacy. Ghosts, reincarnated relatives, dark omens, and imagined scenes populate a timeline that oscillates between the author’s forbears’ past and present day, stretching from Myanmar, where she was born in 1989, to Thailand, California, Spain, and Colorado. In lyrical prose, Myint straddles dream and reality beginning with a mythic take on her great-grandfather, who “died a man but was reborn as me.” Lived experience is overlaid with speculative history, as Myint, who moved to the U.S. as a child, mines the alienation—sowed by the colonialism and racism endured by generations of her family—that has rendered her “a ghost” throughout her life. To fill the void of loneliness surrounding her, she pieces together her family’s past, from her mother’s “cursed” home in Yangon and her parents’ marriage on a lake that was “constructed by the British” to her older brother’s illness and death (“I also believed he had drowned in the lake”). While her poetic narration is indisputably alluring, the nonlinear story line can sometimes become taxing. For those willing to put in the work, this serpentine narrative is a thing of beauty. - Publishers Weekly

A writer born in Myanmar and raised in Thailand and the U.S. traces how her family history has haunted her personal journey.

In this uniquely structured memoir—sleek, poetic paragraphs surrounded by plenty of white space on each page—Myint introduces herself as the reincarnation of her great-grandfather, a relative of the royal family in Myanmar, where the author was born. She lived in Bangkok from the ages of 1 to 7, after which she and her family immigrated to California. Myint later lived in Colorado, Rhode Island, and Spain, but no matter where she traveled, she was never able to escape her ancestral history. Some of this is a matter of reincarnation: “When my great-grandmother finally died, she was reborn as my middle sister. My sister was my wife in our past life. My mother says I followed her into this life.” But some of it, Myint writes, has been a product of dissociation associated with inherited trauma. Many of her personal memories, she notes, came to her in the third person, meaning that she pictured herself as a character in the scene rather than an inhabitant of her body. Due to this disconnection, Myint tells her own story in the third person while narrating her family history—much of which she did not personally witness—in the first person. Additionally, she tells her ancestors’ story from past to present, but her own from present to past. Braiding these opposing timelines and narrative perspectives creates an innovative structure that effectively contrasts the author’s deep enmeshment with her family history with her distance from reality. On a line-by-line level, the book is spectacularly lyrical, and each word feels perfectly chosen. Some readers may struggle with the chronology and unnamed characters, but the text is undeniably powerful.

An imaginative and compelling memoir about what we inherit and what we pass on. - Kirkus Reviews

Blank space is difficult to employ in a book. It can be read as emptiness or it can offer a reader breath, pause, reflection, meaning. “Names for Light,” a memoir by Thirii Myo Kyaw Myint, makes ample use of blank space, between paragraphs, strings of thought, scenes and events. When not used, what’s there is jumbled and scattered.

A writer need not be concerned with where she comes from, but for memoir this is its core project. For Myint, who was born in Myanmar before moving to Thailand, the United States and Spain, it is a painful and intrusive question. A question that, by its very asking, suggests she does not belong, a question that displaces her. She balks. Beyond the naming of places (Leymyethna, Gayan, Denver, Sittwe, Yangon, Minbu, South Bend, Hinthada, Madrid), she doesn’t get to the difficulty of the question as a writer — and by this, I don’t mean a place on a map. I mean the stink and cringe and failure and noise and laughter that make a life feel real and lived, the thing that makes a person tick.

We are told that one “can be a ghost while one is still alive … if one carries what one cannot remember. Empty memories, blank memories, absent memories.” This thinking allows the author to get away with being vacuous. When we encounter the “I” in this story, it is often at a distance, “the observer, the outsider, always in the middle of a story but never at the center of it.” She sometimes switches to the third person to refer to herself, as if afraid to speak from the first, to own the voice and power that could be. She tells us, “I do not like to make decisions, to take risks, to assert or involve myself. … I prefer to … keep myself to myself.” And this is what she achieves in her writing — she keeps herself to herself. In doing so, she makes the question of where she comes from illumined and voluminous.

Myint’s narrative shape is barely there. We get blips and cracks, “a trace, a strip, or a corner of the memories,” a “memory of a memory.” This family history is often recounted through others, like this: “My father said my grandmother said” and “My other grandmother, my mother’s mother” and “My mother said my great-grandmother and great-grandfather.” This makes the prose clunky and cluttered, and the people difficult to feel and see and hear and remember.

The language is so concerned with and looking pretty that what the story is about — political upheaval, death, heartbreak, violence, discrimination, the immigrant experience — is barely noticeable. The parents, particularly, don’t feel like real people, since we never get them in their adult mess. She takes at face value the story of her mother “discovering love letter after love letter” from her father with the unquestioning trust of a child. So often, Myint approximates with “I do not know if,” “I wonder,” “I imagine.” This is a writer who does not know and is comfortable in not knowing. The gaze flinches.

It is one thing to be able to put feelings on paper and another to make a reader feel what we write. The narrow line between being a note taker and being a writer is worth discerning. We are told:

“This place repeated enough times begins to sound like displaced.”

“Because the verbs are left un-conjugated in Burmese, left untouched, the same word describes the past, present and future.”

“Island. In English, the two-syllable word is paradisal. … In Bamar, the one-syllable kyun, with its elongated vowel, is dismal, claustrophobic.”

These are wonderful observations of language, but the writing does not move them beyond being duly noted. It certainly sounds like poetry, but it is not poetry.

The material Myint has before her is compelling, but they are memories and stories that are not hers. This is the problem for the children of immigrants and refugees when we set out to write memoirs. However special we think our lives are or however much we accomplish, our stories always pale in comparison — even more so when we lean on others’ to write our own. We, whom “nothing has ever happened to,” are never as compelling as our parents. - Souvankham Thammavongsa

https://www.nytimes.com/2021/08/17/books/review/names-for-light-thirii-myo-kyaw-myint.html

The 32-year-old writer Thirii Myo Kyaw Myint was born in Burma, now Myanmar. She lived briefly in Bangkok before emigrating to San Jose, California with her family before she turned eight. Myint has no solid memories of Burma other than what has been dutifully told to her by older sisters and parents. Her family fled the country shortly after pro-democracy protestors were crushed in 1988 by the military junta that still wields absolute power. Myint’s father, an educator, managed to secure a teaching job in Thailand which became their escape route to America. During the past decade, Myanmar has drawn the world’s ire for the government’s ferociously vile ethnic cleansing of the Rohingyas, a Muslim minority, who have been fleeing in massive numbers to Bangladesh.

Myint is struck by the violent history and current upheavals in Myanmar. But this knowledge does not preclude her rising irritation with Americans who, after finding out where she is from, annoy her with intimidating questions about her homeland, and wait for her to express gratitude for being in America (which she intentionally withholds). She is thankful for her new opportunities that have taken her to a teaching career at Amherst College. But she doesn’t identify as American. The concept of “place” remains opaque for her. She is inextricably caught up in the turbulent stories of her family’s past and has grown weary of answering questions about her ethnicity and skin color. She writes, “Whiteness is not a color or a race or an ethnicity but a construct of power, the power to speak, to tell stories, not only about oneself, but about other people.” Yet questions linger over her narrative. Whom is she writing for? Is she trying to reveal or conceal? Is she deceiving herself or trying to deceive others? Is this an attempt to reconnect with a family that obsesses her, but from whom she seems estranged? The mystical beauty of her prose, which seems to speak to us in intermittent revelations, transports us elsewhere, but it is an unnamable place, a territory of lostness.

In Names for Light, she anoints herself as the family chronicler, and speaks of the elaborate preparation ritual she has undertaken to begin her task. She writes:

“There are no marks on my body from a previous life. Unlike my eldest sister, I was born perfectly blank, perfectly bare. For years, I waited for a mark to appear, a sign of who I was or had been or would become. I searched my body, read and reread it carefully. The sharp point of a tooth, the shape of my hands, the places where I could not bear to be touched: my back, my pelvis, under my chin. I was afraid to change my body in any way, to leave my own mark upon it. I got no tattoos, no piercings. I never dyed my hair, and the one time I had it chemically straightened, I shaved it off afterwards. I believed I had to keep my body plain and pristine if I was to receive a sign.”

Myint floats backwards in time and tells us of her paternal great-grandmother who was left widowed with many children. She wonders how her great-grandmother handled the distress. Most of her children got into serious trouble. One became a gangster, another was imprisoned, still another died in a street fight. Only her paternal grandfather seemed sturdy enough to withstand the turbulence and he would become the father of her father. She admires her great-grandfather and father’s centeredness but there is a part of her that fantasizes about her great-uncles and their unrestrained wildness thinking “If I had a thousand lives, I might have been more like my great-uncles: braver, bolder, and wilder. But I have only one life, at least one life at a time, and in this life, I am my father’s daughter and my grandfather’s granddaughter. Like them, I am the observer, I am the outsider, always in the middle of the story but never at the center of it.” But we hear the irony in her proclamation. After all, she is the writer; and thus has supreme power to embellish or omit whatever she chooses to, without asking anyone’s permission. Thus, she becomes the center, and all others rest beneath her.

A few stories recur throughout her narrative. One involves a brother who was born to her parents first, and who died shortly afterwards because he could not hold down his nourishment. She believes that years later, when her sister began putting her finger down her throat to induce vomiting, she was perhaps mourning the death of the brother she never knew. The brother that still haunts their mother’s dreams. Myint writes “Vomiting was the activities of ghosts … ghosts could not speak or touch or bleed, but they could vomit. Vomit or ghosts, the ultimate others, the abject, that which can be rejected from the body, in death or in times of distress when reality is rejected …” Myint frequently refers to her mother’s thwarted ambitions and an uncomfortable competitiveness between them. Yet in another way, Myint’s family remain muffled by her separation from them. She never mentions any demonstrations of love or tenderness between any of them. Nor are there any remembrances of her mother or father comforting her when she was sick or distressed.

Myint occasionally disrupts her rhythm and speaks to us in a plainer, more brittle voice. She admits to an inclination to keep her suffering from others. She tells of her gratefulness in having found an affectionate white man whom she plans to marry. She marvels at his ability to grasp the freely associational nature of her writing. She talks about her student’s difficulties when writing about love. She writes about her mother’s depression when they first came to California. When she was young and would misbehave, her mother would say “Do you want something bad to happen? Do you want your mother or father to die?”

At its simmering core, Names For Light is itself the “place” where the family’s past – and Myint’s dynamically evolving present — approach each other. The tug and pull of these forces, and the broader awareness of tyranny in the world, comprise an environment for the reader that is both demanding in its multiple vectors and gratifying in its patterning and acute intelligence. - Elaine Margolin

https://www.ronslate.com/on-names-for-light-a-family-history-by-thirii-myo-kyaw-myint/

Thirii Myo Kyaw Myint’s Names for Light, winner of the 2018 Graywolf Nonfiction Prize, questions the meaning of home. The memoir gathers interwoven vignettes of past and present, examining themes of genealogy and displacement. Myint confronts the ambivalence of belonging and alienation, discussing colonial and post-colonial violence, racism, micro-aggressions, and othering, as well as her painful experience of marginalization in the United States, where she grew up, and abroad. From the unwanted touch of her skin to the inquisitorial curiosity of strangers over where she “really” comes from, she expresses her tiredness and understandable rage. In a climate of rising anti-Asian hate crimes, this book is an urgent call for change.

What immediately stands out in the urgent call is Myint’s clear voice, as she explores personal and historical issues through lyrical evocations of cities and town such as Yangon, Madrid, South Bend, Sittwe, and Hinthada. At first, the locations overlay in a dizzying recollection, each chapter taking place in a different setting, conveying the author’s sense of inherited and acquired displacement. But the varied geography is an invitation to remember lived experience despite uprootedness and, perhaps most importantly for Myint, provides a canvas on which to appose orally-transmitted heritage to re-center among constant movement.

To recreate this oral heritage, Myint creates dialogues with family and the ghosts of family no longer with her. She believes to have embodied the reincarnation of her great-grandfather. The memory of her elder brother, who died as a newborn, also never leaves her. Her elder sister, she believes, is the transmigrated soul of their great-grandmother. The evocation of her ancestors nods to the belief in the interconnectedness of all things and the difficulty of escaping one’s fate. Referring to an old photograph hung in the room which she used to share with her two sisters, Myint notes: “For many years, I looked at it as if looking into a mirror, as if by my looking I could conjure the ghosts of my great-grandfather and my great-grandmother. I looked and looked at this photograph until I felt as if we were the ghosts, my middle sister and I, we, the remnants of these people.”

Myint seeks to populate missing pieces of a family story, one which links her both to the intimacy of her great-grandfather and a sense of safety. Memory merges the emotional and physical when she recalls, like him, similar health woes, serving to carry a form of identification and projection, crucial to Myint’s own reconstructed narrative:

I do not know how much ash is produced when a body is burned. Ash is the remainder, the residue, the remnant or trace, the vestige of a body after it has burned. Ash is what could not burn, or what had to be created so something else could be destroyed. In this way, we are all each other’s ashes. I am my great-grandfather’s ash. I am the story that was told about his death, or the story that was created from his death, though many years later.

Here, Myint embraces a world of haunting recollections, omens, and traditions—including Buddhist teachings on the transience and non-binary nature of our existence and what to call home. Her family story is reclaimed and is revived through her.

Myint also shows that home is expressed not only in herself and her immediate family but also in geography—in land. Mynit intertwines the personal and the historical, writing about Myanmar’s own troubled history. Myint’s reflections on Myanmar and nationalism are timely and illuminating, given the military’s takeover earlier this year and continued brutalization of protesters. She remembers the politics of the country’s independence, the 8888 strike during summer 1988 which saw the eruption of mass protests, explaining that ayekhin or “protest” contains the word “write” in the national Bamar language. “An ayekhin was an effort to write history, with one’s body, with one’s life,” she adds, positing the body as a fragment but also a tool which can be directed towards justice and a larger purpose.

At times, Myint struggles to claim an “I” commonly attached to an ipseity. The shadow of her family seems to consume her. When narrating her memories, she prefers an illeism, a third-person singular narrative, to perhaps help with a perceived loss of agency, dissociation, and to regulate her own story. “People without a home are ghosts,” she writes. By the end of the memoir, Myint comes to see that memories can be “inexact,” and she ruminates what she remembers as much as what she doesn’t. Names for Light is a poetic love letter to the people who make us who we are, and a reminder of the difficulty some face to find one’s way home. - Farah Abdessamad

https://blog.pshares.org/finding-home-in-thirii-myo-kyaw-myints-names-for-light/

Thirii Myo Kyaw Myint, The End of Peril, The

End of Enmity, The End of Strife, A Haven,

Noemi Press, 2018.

An unnamed narrator returns to her ancestral home in an environmentally depleted harbor city with a baby in her care. She has escaped from what she calls "the breach"--the collapse of the climate-controlled domed city where she grew up. From a thread about the narrator's childhood, we learn that the breach was caused by the hysterical growth of the genetically-modified trees in the domed city, a growth which is spreading over the earth. From a thread about the history of the harbor city, we learn of an ancient war that was fought there. In the thread which follows the narrative present, there is a storm which floods the harbor city. The narrator's mother disappears and the baby falls ill. The narrator then journeys to city's river to preform the funeral rites for her mother and cure the baby. At the river, the three narrative threads come together.

In The End of Peril, the End of Enmity, the End of Strife, a Haven, Thirii Myo Kyaw Myint explores the beauty and the pain of constructed realities—the stories we tell and the worlds we build for ourselves. This debut book curves in on itself, doubling back and retracing its steps to create an ever-more intimate portrait of a woman between two cities: the domed city of her youth, which was built by her grandfather, and the titular harbor city, which once acted as haven for an ancient king under attack. Though long past, the history of this harbor city is very much alive in the narrator, as she is a descendant of both the city’s king and those who attacked him. “The city fell and the two peoples are one people now,” she tells us. “In my body, I am one person.” This comingling of attacker and attacked sets the stage for what might be called a book of blurring. Pressing reality mingles with myth and the spectral dead exist among the living. So, too, are lines blurred between human and animal, corporeal and natural: blooming trees swell and curl tendrils round a dying father; a sleepless princess carves the moon with her sharpened hair.

Perhaps the most significant blurring is the one between the narrator and her mother: “My mother,” she says, “…did not want to be reminded of the permeability of the body, of my body, which had invaded and opened hers.” There is also the narrator’s concern for her own baby, a child she winds close like a spool of thread and worries over. “I want it [the child],” she says, “to better understand what it is like to be a woman, for the baby may one day become a woman…The choice of gender the baby will one day make is heavy.” Musings like this one call us to reexamine motherhood—what does it mean? What does it require? And where—if ever—does it end? - https://www.arkint.org/reviews-1#the-end-of-peril-capsule-review

A good example of what independent presses have to offer is Thirii Myo Kyaw Myint’s The End of Peril, the End of Enmity, the End of Strife, A Haven. No formulaic pap, no ‘been there, done that.’ Just fine, original storytelling. At first I tried to pin down a genre for Myint’s book. Then I relaxed and let her story take me to a horrific ecological event that ruins a city and upends the lives of its people, all who are unnamed. We have the narrator, her family, and “the baby.” There is also a friend called “the girl” and assorted others, including a king and his family and numerous enemies.

The book takes place in two cities: One is the large harbor city, the other is a manmade domed city that protects its inhabitants from what’s going on outside the dome. The domed city is never given a formal name, but we learn that the king’s men retreated into it “when they could no longer hold back the enemy. The end of peril, they called the city. The end of enmity. The end of strife. It meant all of those things. The city was their haven.”

At some point the protective dome is compromised by what Myint terms a breach, and it has everything to do with trees. Our narrator is very attentive to the baby and explains what the harbor city used to be like:

did you know once there were trees? [ . . . ] I try to describe the sound of wind rustling through leaves, the way the leaves would flutter, and how the sunlight was tinged green inside the woods, how clear that light was.

The book takes on a mythical quality as Myint writes, “I hold the baby close to me again, and I say very softly that the women were blamed for the sky flying away, because women are usually blamed . . . .”

Okay, but then, “The choice of gender the baby will one day make is heavy. [ . . . ] Is the baby my daughter? I wonder, as I look upon its sleeping face. Is it my son? Will it resent me for this gift I am giving it now, this life?”

Another time, she tells baby details about the breach: “I heard the sound of wings beating against glass [ . . . ] The sound was coming from the leaves. Green leaves budding and growing and pushing against the glass.”

Because of our narrator’s mixed origins—she descends from ancestors of the king and also the enemy—she’s not looked upon kindly by what’s left of the harbor city dwellers. When she wanders outside the dome, the people are thin and kind of scary. But here’s how the narrator describes herself: “I was fed by the wealth of the domed city, its green woods and added vitamins. [ . . . ] I am a big girl. Many people had to die so that I could live.”

The story loops back and forth between her father who designed the domed city, her forays into the harbor city to the home of her grandfather, her love-hate relationship with her mother, and the doings of the king’s family and its enemies.

We learn more about that mother, who apparently is gorgeous. She browbeats her daughter by saying the girl is not beautiful, is possessed and should have been a boy, and Mom tries to reshape her daughter’s face. That’s not all, as shown in this passage that says so much: “My mother used to hit me for chewing with my mouth open or sitting with my knees apart. [ . . . ] My mother did not hit hard, but I always cried. She made my father watch, which is what I could not stand.” Though the mother is an integral part of the tale, I’m wondering if there are any good mothers in literary fiction today.

At times The End of Peril, the End of Enmity, the End of Strife, A Haven reads like a fairy tale, though resembling those original Grimm Brothers’ works, not the milder children’s versions. That’s the entertainment value of Myint’s book. More importantly, though, it reads like a warning against the environmental shenanigans taking place in our world today. It is both beautifully written and relevant. - Valerie Wieland

https://www.newpages.com/book-reviews/end-of-peril-end-of-enmity-end-of-strife-haven

In an interview with Entropy for her debut novel The End of Peril, The End of Enmity, The End of Strife, A Haven, Thirii Myo Kyaw Myint explains how one of the nigh-parallel worlds occurring throughout is influenced by “my father’s retellings of U Kala’s Maha Yazawin or Great Chronicle, an early 18th-century canonical Burmese text.” Unfortunately for those who can’t read Burmese (including myself), it remains untranslated. Yet it also remains the scholarly trend to see the Maha Yazawin, in the words of historian Victor Lieberman in his 1986 essay “How Reliable is U Kala,” as “a pastiche of legends, local histories, biographies, and detailed court records” (Lieberman 247). To say The End of Peril is seeded with this composite character would be to walk in the forest of truth. This is not to say the novel is historical, intent on historicity, or can be relegated to a genre. In fact, what Myint understands about these labels—historicity, facticity, genre—is how they accrete to form lived experience. Myint understands the overflowing of the present.

Overflowing is the operative word here, as the story of The End of Peril centers around floods. There are two cities: the titular harbor city and a nameless domed city. The former was founded during what reads as both an ageless and ancient war between a kingdom and “raiders from the north” (Myint 8). They named their refuge hoping the symbolism of its name would echo throughout history. It did: it was the last place the raiders flooded into before the war ended. The survivors of the harbor city would go on to build the domed city, achieving in practice what the harbor city tried in name. The architect of this temple to endurance would steal away with “the daughter of a clan leader, an heiress to a conquered land, a descendant of the northern invaders” (Myint 8) and would eventually be grandfather of the nameless narrator. What prompts the telling of this story is her departure from her childhood home, child in tow, after the dome bursts and water floods in. In that formerly conquered land, The End of Peril, she recalls and lives these layers of historical ironies and symmetries that will continue to lurk in the novel.

That the novel is front-loaded with this genealogy might lead one to plant the flag of Genesis inside. That the novel explicitly mentions the first and second precepts of a Buddhist layperson might lead one to see the other three interlaced within. One could even see Baudrillard’s hyperreality where the Domed City “displayed the moon phases recorded in an old almanac” (Myint 30) and how the narrator, like an automaton, learned the harbor city’s script through a textbook of which “I write in that same font” (Myint 39). And, while all these are evocative, it’s a case of not seeing the trees for the forest. The End of Peril is a death struggle with Susan Sontag’s famous dictum, “In place of a hermeneutics we need an erotics of art” (Sontag 10). It is a novel about bodies—politic and individual—being interpreted through their ephemeral “legends, local histories, biographies, and detailed court records” (Lieberman 247). It’s about those same bodies’ struggle to experience this “feel[ing] like young animals” (Myint 17) in a world where both seem to remain endlessly at a distance. It is, like many great novels, a cipher. It is a hermeneutics of an erotics of art. - Justin Goodman

read more here: https://www.neworleansreview.org/the-end-of-peril-the-end-of-enmity-the-end-of-strife-a-haven/

There are no names in Thirii Myo Kyaw Myint's new novel, The End of Peril, the End of Enmity, the End of Strife, a Haven. By forgoing names, the novel resists an easy grafting of a migrant story, an exile's story—it exists outside of context. This quality contrasts the book's characters, who, lacking names, must define themselves by their context: societal roles (mother, daughter, king's men), history (a war, an evacuation), and place.

The novel's narrator is poised between such markers, hesitating to make a decision for fear it will preclude other possibilities. "There is so much to choose, to give, and by giving, to take away," she says. She's in limbo between two cities, the harbor city of the present and the domed city of her past. She's between her roles as a daughter and a mother, and between the side of the enemy and the side of the king's men in a war that drove her family to the harbor city, the name of which means the end of peril, the end of enmity, the end of strife. The city's a haven, we're told, but not for her. She's been stranded there by history, and is, as her mother accuses her, "restless, a hungry ghost."

At the center of her current restlessness is a baby. It's not the narrator's baby, but it is in her care. The baby, too, is waiting between defined states. "I have not yet chosen a name for the baby. I have not yet chosen a gender," the narrator says. If decisions preclude some endings, we expect them to also result in others. The story therefore remains stalled in the purgatory of the harbor city until final decisions are made. Myint skillfully maneuvers the reader into a state of anticipation. We anticipate, as the narrator does, the mother's death or the baby's definition.

The narrator's own transience is something we get through memory: she shuttles us between the present and an alluring past. The past is also another place, the domed city, which we learn is an artificially controlled society, designed by the narrator's "father's father." In the domed city, people don't seem to die and the trees have been biochemically engineered to grow faster, stranger. The baby comes from the domed city. The baby's a seed of what that domed society wanted, some utopian vision, and it survived that city's breach and ruin. It becomes the narrator's mission to find a new place for the baby. If the baby can survive, her thinking goes, perhaps the old vision can too.

Part of the characters' inabilities to settle into the present is due to the fact that each one of them is haunted by the past. The mother is haunted by her younger self, which is stunningly captured in a description of her earlier, photographed version looking "radiant, glowing like an apparition, for the beauty of the dead is always eternal and transcendent, while the living decompose." The narrator is haunted by another, a girl she's left behind. The novel deftly stretches the mother and daughter between the places, a tension heightened in the narrator's case because her father's side is descended from the enemy. "In the domed city," she tells us, "my body was the spoils of war and in the harbor city, my body is the shame of war. I am a child of violence."

When the present tension rises, the narrator deviates into reverie, the surreal and enchanting story of a locked-away princess that the narrator's father, who died back in the domed city, told her when she was young. As the novel's pressure continues to build, the prose stretches its realist confines and scenes begin to stray into the surreal territory of these legends. Myint's language does this too, struggling as if it is under pressure to contain itself. It accumulates, brims, and finally spills into extravagant and beautiful passages, only to recede and begin accumulating again.

It's appropriate then, that when change comes, it comes as a flood. The world comes undone. The narrator is forced to flee the surges with the baby. The novel's end leaves the reader tethered, circling back on its invented folklore, the image of a collapsed dome, one city in ruins, another in decay, everywhere "wild grass dancing over the sand. Grass flickering like fire," and surging through it the purging waters.

"The renewal has finally come," the narrator tells us. The cleansing makes the ground fertile for the baby, perhaps, but it remains unresolved whether the change can save the narrator, who's also tethered, in her case by a lifeline traced out on her palm by her mother, a line that coils back to an abandoned city, and a girl left behind. - Mai Nardone

https://www.therupturemag.com/the-collagist/2018/5/16/the-end-of-peril-the-end-of-enmity-the-end.html

Interviews

Maudlin House— “Writer of the Week,” a column by Benjamin Lee, January 2019

Lighthouse Writers Workshop—"Catching Up With Thirii Myo Kyaw Myint" by Sophie Grossman, July 2018

The Rumpus—"Mini-Interview Project #145: Thirii Myo Kyaw Myint" by Joe Scapellato, July 2018

Electric Literature—"Thirii Myo Kyaw Myint's Surreal, Haunting Post-Apocalypse" by Tillman Miller, July 2018

• featured in Vol. 1 Brooklyn

Entropy—"Until the Deep Past and the Present Are Able to Touch: A Conversation with Thirii Myo Kyaw Myint" by Joe Milazzo, March 2018.

The New Delta Review—"Contributor Interview with Thirii Myo Kyaw Myint," January 2018. 

The Collagist—"We Are the Privileged Ones Who Can," September 2016.

Federigo Tozzi - His work is at once a mixture of subtlety and melodrama, of psychological perception, primitive emotion, and raw physical need, as his plain subjects, yearning for connection and love, forever grasp at the unattainable

Federigo Tozzi, Love in Vain: Selected Stories, Trans. by Minna Proctor, New Directions, 2001

read it at Google Books

Love in Vain: Selected Stories of Federigo Tozzi is the debut short-story collection in English of one of Italy's most distinguished early modern writers. The twenty stories of Love in Vain were selected and translated by Minna Proctor, who received the 1998 PEN/Renato Poggioli Award for her then unpublished renderings of Tozzi's fiction. "The investigation of naturalism, of truth," writes Proctor in her biographical introduction, "defined Tozzi's poetics. Impassioned by literature, yet isolated from the mainstream, Tozzi found nothing so fascinating as the unfettered expression of the inner lives of normal people." His work is at once a mixture of subtlety and melodrama, of psychological perception, primitive emotion, and raw physical need, as his plain subjects, yearning for connection and love, forever grasp at the unattainable.

PEN award-winner Minna Proctor translated the 20 pieces by prolific Italian realist Federigo Tozzi (1883-1920) that make up Love in Vain: Selected Stories, in which the young characters' search for the romantic ideal often leads only to misery. Jealousy, obsession and betrayal are brought to the fore in these stories of smalltown lovers driven by their passions, trying desperately to connect usually without success. "What good does love do me?" one anguished character asks. Through the arranged marriages, secret trysts and unfulfilled desires, disappointment and frustration are never far off. - Publishers Weekly

"Federigo Tozzi, Italy's forgotten master of the short story, is a real discovery. I was delighted by the compassion and insight of Love in Vain, by its unflinching and subtle dissection of humankind's most private moments. How can such a powerful writer have slipped through the net and for so long? Now, thanks to Minna Proctor's elegant and equally subtle translations, it is unlikely that Tozzi will be forgotten again."― Jim Crace

"Federigo Tozzi's beautiful, strange love stories hover at the abyss, where reason meets unreason and loses. Tozzi must be the poet of abjection, a poet of the unconscious. His perplexing tales reflect on self-conscious characters caught in love's, and their own, absurdly needy net. They comment, too, on the moment when ideas were changing, sensibilities shifting, and his characters move, resistant and confused, from the Victorian into the modern. Translator Minna Proctor has done a wonderful job of realizing these startling stories in English and bringing them to us for the first time."― Lynne Tillman

"Ardent, impetuous, crackling with nerve-energies, Federigo Tozzi insists on his uniqueness. Minna Proctor has brought this full-throttle sensibility into English without a flinch or a fidget."― Sven Birkerts

We're living in the Golden Age of the Rediscovered Writer. Never before have so many worked so hard to republish the works of authors known to so few. From Dawn Powell to Paula Fox, from Charles Portis to Richard Yates, there's an inspiring -- or, depending on your point of view, sobering -- list of writers unjustly neglected in their own times and now enjoying a belated heyday.

Add to that number Federigo Tozzi, an Italian writer who died suddenly in 1920 at age 37, leaving behind five novels and 120 short stories. The stories collected here show off Tozzi's irresistible blend of stark realism and wild passion. His lovers love so hard it hurts; they wring every ounce of pleasure they can out of their simple lives, but they're also never far from a reckoning with disappointment, loss and other ugly realities.

These stories were written in the early 20th century, but their sexual frankness, along with a sort of adorable self-conscious neuroticism that afflicts many of the characters, make them seem strangely modern. - Maria Russo

https://www.salon.com/2001/06/11/recs_33/

A first English-language collection of 20 stories by an almost forgotten Italian writer (1883–1920), malcontent, fervent socialist, and effervescent romantic libertine. Translator Proctor’s illuminating introduction recounts the known facts of Tozzi’s checkered literary and sexual adventures, and links his “provincial realism” convincingly with the work of his contemporaries Italo Svevo and Luigi Pirandello and also (an obvious influence) Sicily’s Giovanni Verga. The stories themselves—simultaneously anecdotal, earthy, and psychologically astute—include such gems as two knowing depictions (in “First Love” and “The Lovers,” respectively) of the intricacies and absurdities of both adolescent and adult passion; a compact rustic tragedy precipitated by jealousy (“Assunta”); tales of marital mistrust, violence, and vengeance (“L’Amore,” “Poverty”) that might have come out of Boccaccio’s Decameron; and a masterly study of obsession (“The Clocks”). Best of all perhaps is “The Idiot”: here, the mind and heart of the emotionally helpless man-child Fiocco are portrayed with remarkable ingenuity—and compassion.

A first-class introduction to a wonderful writer. - Kirkus Reviews

Love in Vain is the belated introduction of Federigo Tozzi to the English-speaking world, one of the first translations of any of the works by this prolific and fairly well-known Italian author. The twenty stories collected here, spanning Tozzi's entire active writing life (1908 to 1920), are only a smattering of his output: there are a hundred more stories, as well as several novels, poetry, essays, plays, and a voluminous correspondence. This collection does, however, offer a good introduction to an author whose work has previously been inaccessible.

Tozzi's career was cut short by his early death (at age thirty-seven), but he had already written a great deal. He had had some success, publishing numerous stories, poetry, the collection of prose-miniatures, Bestie, and the novel Con gli occhi chiusi, and was an author clearly coming into his own, finally able to live off of his writing and devote himself completely to it. At the time of his death his novel, Tre croci, had just appeared, and he was correcting the proofs of his next novel, Il podere. Most of Tozzi's work was then published posthumously (though some, like the companion volumes to Bestie, the prose miniature collections Cose and Persone only some six decades after they were written), and the reception of it was probably cooler than had the promising author been alive and active. Still, he achieved some renown and, at least in Italy, is recognized as a leading literary figure of that time.

Minna Proctor's introduction offers a useful overview of Tozzi's life and career, as well as describing his unusual relationship with his wife, Emma (they "were more perfect epistolary lovers than they ever were married lovers"). Proctor notes "there is so much to explain about his artistic itinerary", but fortunately doesn't try to explain overmuch. She suggests the points of importance, and then lets the work speak for itself.

The stories are short (in this collection only the title story is longer than ten pages) and deceptively simple in appearance -- many short paragraphs (often only a single line) and a good deal of conversation. Exclamation and question marks are found all over. Lives are quickly sketched, their essence revealed in a few episodes.

The notion of "love in vain" is a central one: there are few happy loves or lives here. "But what is love ?" characters wonder, in these or other words. They look for it, and yet when they seem to have found it find less than the hoped for satisfaction in it. It isn't what they had imagined, and some want to be rid of it almost as soon as they find it. "But he wasn't in love with his wife anymore, and he wanted to leave" is a typical scenario in these stories.

The characters are often afraid of happiness, warily approaching it when it seems within grasp, handling it uneasily. "I love you. But we must never see each other again", seems a typical solution. Many of his characters have a great deal of difficulty in living at all (and death ends a number of these stories). Loneliness is pervasive -- "Franco Appesi was feeling more and more alone", begins The Miracle. Even where the opportunity to share one's loneliness is given, the characters are unable to take the necessary steps: the two women live in adjoining apartments in The Boardinghouse, for example, remain frustratingly unable to truly reach out to one another.

There are other miseries as well. A weak man, telling his own story in House for Sale allows himself to be taken advantage of and bullied, forsaking his past and everything that he has and wanting to be grateful for it: "I was sad", he says, as if unable to explain to himself why that should be. "I wanted to be happy." But Tozzi's characters rarely find happiness.

Despite the titles of some of the other stories -- Dead Man in the Oven, To Dream of Death, Vile Creatures, Poverty -- it is not simply a dark collection. There is poignancy here, throughout, with Tozzi baring these souls in simple, well-sketched, revealing scenes.

The incidents in these stories are often truly incidental -- and yet shattering in their consequences. A simple action, a few words -- but then nothing is the way it was before. A typical example is Tozzi's story Marito e moglie (not included in this collection), in which Enrica Landi goes shopping -- when she returns her husband, Vittorino, doesn't recognize her. It is a brief episode, a momentary lapse or feeling of madness that shook him to the quick; he regains his senses -- but can no longer love his wife. "It seems that only a few minutes were enough to alter their years of married life". It only seems that way -- here and in most of his stories Tozzi makes clear how much there is behind such seemingly sudden reversals and changes. He is particularly good at capturing and expressing that moment when these small and large worlds are turned upside down -- and the character's flailing recognition, trying to make sense of their own feelings and the worlds around them.

Tozzi presents his stories well, offering a variety of approaches and different tales. There are tales from the Italian countryside as well as more mystically inclined stories (including the quite remarkable story The Crucifix). They read well -- quick, moving, quite powerful. Stylistically they are accomplished (though he is too fond of the exclamation mark !). The unexpected twists and observations are very effective; only occasionally does he go too far.

One hopes that this is only the first of sliver of Tozzi to be presented in English, and that much more will follow. He is an author worth knowing and reading, and Love in Vain is a good introduction to his work.

https://www.complete-review.com/reviews/italia/tozzif.htm

Federigo Tozzi, Three Crosses, Forgotten Books, 2017

read it here

Excerpt from Three Crosses:

The latter gave a grunt, swore, pulled down the brim of his hat and closed his eyes again. He was squatting in a chair, with his hands in his trouser-pockets and his head leaning against one of the shelves of the bookcase; near by was an antique wooden chest, covered with vases, china plates and paintings, kept there on view for strangers.

Federigo Tozzi (1883-1920) was a unique and isolated writer in turn of the century Italy. Born in Siena, he was the oldest of eight children, of whom only he and his sister lived to adulthood. The mother was afflicted with epilepsy, and the illness was passed on to most of the children. The dominant figure in the family was the father, also Federigo, who owned farm property but put all his efforts into running a trattoria, or restaurant. Young Federigo felt oppressed by his bossy father, and as a result played Bad Boy in school--aside from suffering periods of ill health. His turn to literature was almost an act of defiance, for the father wanted his son to take over the management of the trattoria not write books.

Seeking to escape from this trap he managed to get work with the railroad as a clerk--which resulted in one of his most famous novels, "Diary of a Clerk," 1910. But his first publications were of poetry, and made little impression. It was his novels that were considered more important. His late novel, "Three Crosses,' (in Italian, "Tre Croce") is somewhat of a melodrama about three brothers who try to run an antique shop, but are hopelessly incompetent at handling money. The portraits of the brothers are unforgettable, as well as the descriptions of Siena itself., It is a most unusual novel when compared to other works written at the same time, such as those of Pirandello and Palazzeschi. It is a great achievement for a writer whose life was so short, and who had such promise. - Philip Brantingham

Lukáš Likavčan - The book looks at the way we envisage our planet through cultural artifacts, in order to ask questions such as “For what Earth do we design?” or “What geopolitical tendencies does our imagination of Earth endorse?”

 

Lukáš Likavčan, Introduction to Comparative

Planetology, Strelka Press, 2019.

excerpt

Different philosophical and visual imaginations of the Earth reflect different geopolitical arrangements and translate into different geophysical and biochemical realities on the planetary scale. Following in the footsteps of science fiction writer Kim Stanley Robinson, the philosophical endeavor of studying and comparing these kinds of imaginations, as well as preparing their alternative articulation, might be called comparative planetology, argues philosopher Lukáš Likavčan.

His book Introduction to Comparative Planetology, published by Strelka Press, presents an intertwined analysis of visual cultures of imagining the Earth and geopolitics of climate emergency. It compares different “figures” of the planet—the Planetary, the Globe, Terrestrial, Earth-without-us and Spectral Earth—in order to assess their geopolitical implications.

These implications are then mapped on respective prospects of these figures in developing an infrastructural space for planetary coordination of our design interventions against runaway global heating, and ultimately against mass species extinction.

The book looks at the way we envisage our planet through cultural artifacts, in order to ask questions such as “For what Earth do we design?” or “What geopolitical tendencies does our imagination of Earth endorse?”

By examining existing intuitive conceptions of the planet and proposing new ones, comparative planetology contributes to the emergence of a solid theoretical conceptualization of the planet in contemporary thinking about politics, media, design, and architecture.  

Mojca Penca, “Planetary Entanglements and Entrapments (Review of LukášLikavčan’s Introduction to Comparative Planetology)“ (pdf)

 Domen Ograjenšek: Rubber Boats and Plastic Islands. On ‘Introductionto Comparative Planetology’

The Museum of Apparitions - Beneath the vaulted suspicions of all that is communicable lies this black dossier, a wraith-like codex of microbial psychiatry that dares to utter the final confession: that the greatest crime is that which appears.

 

The Museum of Apparitions, gnOme, 2020.

read it at Google Books

Throughout recorded history, various parts of the world have generated reports of crimes and assaults that are, to use the language of the police, without definable perpetrators. One such instance involves the anonymous victim and even more elusive culprits of the 2020 case related herein, whose ill-fated outcome may have been influenced in part by the abstruse subject matter and unidentifiable author of a document called The Museum of Apparitions.

“Although the examination of apparitions often tends to resist dialectical resolution, Peter J. Shelton’s discovery of Dr. John Doe’s texts points to a truly weird interplay of events that derives its power from an oxymoronic act in which the ineffable becomes the very site of post-apparitional intelligibility. Readers granted entrance to this eerie Wunderkammer will find themselves concomitantly entranced: the book curates a kind of readerly auto-possession, one which artfully signals the enactment of the unsayable, wherein the threshold between being and non-being, time and space, John Doe and John Dee, collapses, revealing the grotesque veracity of its own spectral nature, over and over, ad infinitum. Well worth the price of admission. But enter at your own risk.” – Liesl Ketum, Humbert Divinity School

“Beneath the vaulted suspicions of all that is communicable lies this black dossier, a wraith-like codex of microbial psychiatry that dares to utter the final confession: that the greatest crime is that which appears.” – Anonymous Representative, Too Tired for Suicide

Paynim - a cyberdecadent Maldoror coded among the ruins of a romantic hell, sampling aphoristic chants across the necropolitan blockchain! A mad collection of theory-poetry and parenthetic wisdom, this anti-evangelion of Zarathustrian superartificial malgorithms will haunt forever our lost necropolis of love

 

Paynim, The Anti-M3ssiah, gnOme books, 2020.

read it at Google Books

There can be no preamble to what follows. In many ways the words contained herein form the outline of a catastrophe in thought: an aberrant epistemology stolen from the future; an egg poached from the claws of demonic time.

“For centuries, scholars cloistered in the shadowy halls of archaic historiography have suspected that the mystery cults are in fact alive and well in the modern world — and that the sacred gases of geologic chasms at Delphi are in fact part of the atmosphere itself, beamed through each of us in the form of aphasic code. The strange cryptograms of Paynim provide us with further evidence of this. They are axiomatic and kataphatic, they are executable and self-annihilating.” – dòmisòsyè, author of The Book of Hallowed Annulments

“2020, and on my way home I pass an ad for Guy Ritchie’s 2005 film Revolver. By nominal/nominative association, Dennis Ritchie and his 1970s programming-language (C) spring-to-mind, along with their C++ OneUpmanship/StroustrUpmanship (another 1970s creation; my mental associations run back fifty years, it would seem). Back at the casa, I log into the old laptop only to find a little Gift—Capital-G as in German—from Gnome Books: a gnomic text with a Roman C page-count plus a bonus page, following that, upon which appears the statement that “books are never closed” (Merci Monsieur Möbius). Prior to the endlessness described on the end-page—page C+I—is an admission by the author of the text that the text itself was an οδός (or an ωδή to the οδός) and that the road taken (the οδός) has already been paved. What we have here, in book form, is a work of roads-scholarship, and just as was the case in a film released eight years prior to Ritchie’s Revolver—Lynch’s Lost Highway—the road wraps round itself, revolving in a monstrous Möbius-Loop qua collapsed Figure-Eight (∞). It occurs to me that I received this text in a manner not entirely unlike that of F·M (Fred Madison) in the A·M—mid-morning—opening-sequence of Lynch’s Lost Highway; is this, then, some kind of demonic diary or diabolical dialogue that I have been given? What price must be paid for the perusal of such a publication? Paynim, its pseudonymous author, is, after all, no thielevchinosekian paypal: rather s/he is some sort of nietzscheo·nakamotonian pagan—paynim being an Old (or rather, Middle) English translation of the Norman paienime, itself a translation of the Late-Latin/Lost-Highway paganismus (‘pagan’). The price of perusal might very well be a pseudonymous paganism or paynimity: a becoming-pagan the better to bear witness to the titular Anti-M3ssiah. With a nod to Nietzsche’s Antichrist and Prelude to a Philosophy of the Future (Beyond Good and Evil), The Anti-M3ssiah sets out in its set of six—6⁽⁶⁶⁾—poetic parts or song-sections to be a ballad of the blockchain, chanting/incanting ‘the inverted gospel’ (Paynim’s phrase) of the latter’s ‘robo-rebellion’ (Paynim’s phrase) and ‘ascetic re-definintions’ (ibidem).” – Dan Mellamphy (@youtopos)

“The Messiah comes and saves and completes, his antithesis arriving backwards to imperil and confuse and leave us unfinished. The Anti-Messiah will throw you to the wolves, to the lions, to the dogs, to the ideas of these creatures: all bite and no substance. And then you’re in bits and he’s the space between them, like nothing had a name. He is not he, is not she, is not anything, but a nothing professing to be everything, the last ghost light before the dark, in the heaven you deserve of endlessly becoming less. Open parenthesis, close parenthesis, and forget to pretend there was anything else.” – Gary J. Shipley

“All hail the Anti-M3ssiah, a cyberdecadent Maldoror coded among the ruins of a romantic hell, sampling aphoristic chants across the necropolitan blockchain! A mad collection of theory-poetry and parenthetic wisdom, this anti-evangelion of Zarathustrian superartificial malgorithms will haunt forever our lost necropolis of love.” – Germán Sierra

“A paean to this Age.” – E. Elias Merhige

Aleksander Wat - One of the most original, fascinating, and curious figures in 20th century Polish literature, Wat left behind an oeuvre which is salient, artistically accomplished, and influential... with its shifting narrative perspectives, wild imagination combining the trivial and the fantastic, and highly 'subjective' lyrical style,

Aleksander Wat, Lucifer Unemployed, Trans. by Lillian Vallee, Northwestern University Press, 1990.

download (pdf)

In these nine stories the Polish writer Aleksander Wat consistently turns history on its ear in comic reversals reverberating with futurist rhythms and the gently mocking humor of despair. Wat inverts the conventions of religion, politics, and culture to fantastic effect, illuminating the anarchic conditions of existence in interwar Europe.

The title story finds a superbly ironic Lucifer wandering the Europe of the late 1920s in search of a mission: what impact can a devil have in a godless time? What is his sorcery in a society far more diablical than the devil himself? Too idealistic for a world full of modern cruelties, the unemployable Lucifer finally finds the only means of guaranteed immortality. In "The Eternally Wandering Jew," steady Jewish conversion to Christianity results in Nathan the Talmudist reigning as Pope Urban IX. The hilarious satire on power, "Kings in Exile," unfolds with the dethroned monarchs of Europe meeting to found their own republic in an uninhabited island in the Indian Ocean.

"Wat... was a central figure in Polish modernism and this—his 1927 book of speculative stories—comes as a revelation... The style is quick, syncopated, and piquant (excellently rendered by Vallee), with Wat capable of richer tones as well... Wat's stories [indicate] the special nature of the Mitteleuropisch Expressionism that flourished—however briefly—in a literature we still know so little about."—Kirkus Reviews

These nine stories, originally published in Poland in 1927, will introduce American readers to the fresh, biting political and social fictive manipulations of Wat, who died in 1967. Marked by prose that is dense, even labyrinthine, as well as somewhat overblown in its archness, the collection serves as a crucible where the line between reality and fantasy is repeatedly obliterated. Wat fancies a Catholic Church whose priests and pope of Jewish descent persecute the anti-Semites/anti-Catholics; the latter group, headed by John Ford of the automobile dynasty, have converted to Judaism. Elsewhere, in the wake of WW I, a new island surfaces in the Indian Ocean and becomes a home for dethroned monarchs; these rulers of civilization degenerate into barbarians. A man searches for a street that never existed, and a member of a theater audience impulsively joins the play. An unemployed devil, who finds he is superfluous in the inferno of atheistic modern times, becomes a film artist: Charlie Chaplin. - Pubishers Wekly

"One of the most original, fascinating, and curious figures in twentieth-century Polish literature, Wat left behind an oeuvre which is salient, artistically accomplished, and influential... with its shifting narrative perspectives, wild imagination combining the trivial and the fantastic, and highly 'subjective' lyrical style, [Lucifer Unemployed] is a unique and important contribution to the twentieth-century evolution of the short story and fiction and general."—Stanislaw Baranczak

Aleksander Wat, Against the Devil in History:

Poems, Short Stories, Essays, Fragments, Trans.

by Frank L. Vigoda, Slavica Pub, 2018.

This extraordinary poet can be seen against the background of three periods of the 20th century. Born in 1900 to a Jewish merchant family in Warsaw, he became an anarchist and futurist, edited a communist journal, and was imprisoned by the Polish police. At the beginning of WWII he was arrested by the Soviets and spent several years in Soviet prisons. He returned to Poland an anticommunist in 1946, established an important publishing house (PIW), in the 1950s suffered a stroke that resulted in severe recurring pain, and started to write poetry again. He emigrated to Italy and France, and in 1967, after years of struggling with pain, he committed suicide. The third part of the century saw the efforts of his widow Ola Wat (herself an interesting writer) and a group of admirers to publish and promote his works, of which a large part remained unfinished: My Century (conversations with Czes aw Mi osz), collected poems, letters, miscellaneous papers, and notebooks. The uniqueness of Wat's oeuvre lies in the seamless blending of several seemingly heterogeneous components. He draws from numerous sources, including the Old and New Testaments, mythology, Oriental traditions, history, sociology, politics, biology, and mineralogy, to name only a few. Yet at the same time his poems are extremely sensual and somatic. Ideas, images, and dreams meld with important existential and theological questions, oscillating between hilarious affirmation and complete skepticism and negation, and undermined by suffering and pain.

Aleksander Wat, My Century, Trans. by Richard

Lourie, New York Review Books Classics, 2003.

In My Century the great Polish poet Aleksander Wat provides a spellbinding account of life in Eastern Europe in the midst of the terrible twentieth century. Based on interviews with Nobel Prize winner Czeslaw Milosz, My Century describes the artistic, sexual, and political experimentation --in which Wat was a major participant-- that followed the end of World War I: an explosion of talent and ideas which, he argues, in some ways helped to open the door to the destruction that the Nazis and Bolsheviks soon visited upon the world. But Wat's book is at heart a story of spiritual struggle and conversion. He tells of his separation during World War II from his wife and young son, of his confinement in the Soviet prison system, of the night when the sound of far-off laughter brought on a vision of "the devil in history." "It was then," Wat writes,

 As a document of historical witness, My Century is an extraordinary work. But more than that, it is a masterpiece of autobiography. Wat’s voice is irresistible, and he tells his story with such rigor and intelligence, such overpowering human warmth, that one is permanently altered by his words....It would be impossible for me to overstate my admiration for this book. It is a magnificent achievement, one of the most moving and powerful books I have ever read.— Paul Auster

Illuminating....What Solzhenitsyn did for the camps, Wat has done for the prisons.— J.M. Cameron, New York Review of Books

I couldn’t put it down... one reads it with an excitement only a great novel can elicit....No one has written so well on prison life, to my knowledge, since Dostoevsky.— Irving Howe

A very remarkable book indeed....There is, at every stage, Aleksander Wat himself, with his keen intelligence, his powerful descriptive gifts and his moral insight....The whole book is an impressive act of witness. It deepens the reader’s response to life and lays bare a major tract of history...

Such a fascinating book to read, this spoken memoir by Aleksander Wat!....Aleksander Wat was a poet, and My Century is a work of art....[It] may be read as a spiritual biography of a generation of European intellectuals....I would put it on a shelf in the vicinity of Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn’s Gulag, so compelling is its testimony and analysis.— Jan T. Gross, New York Times Book Review

With the Skin: Poems of Aleksander Wat

Aleksander Wat (1900–1967), the nom de plume of Aleksander Chwat, was born in Warsaw, the descendant of an old and distinguished Jewish family which counted among its members the great sixteenth-century cabalist Isaac Luria. He attended Warsaw University, where he studied philosophy, psychology, and logic, and formed strong ties with the literary avant-garde, publishing a first book of poems, Me from One Side and Me from the Other Side of My Pug Iron Stove, in 1920 and, some years later, a collection of stories entitled Lucifer Unemployed. Wat edited a variety of influential journals and helped to disseminate the work of Mayakovsky and the futurists in Poland, before forming an allegiance with the Communist Party and confining his writing to journalism. In 1939 he fled east before the advancing German army and was separated from his wife and young son. The family reunited in Lwów, then under Soviet control, where Wat found work on a newspaper, only to be placed under arrest. Imprisoned in the Soviet Union for the better part of two years, during which time he converted from Judaism to Christianity, Wat again rejoined his family, who had been exiled to Kazakhstan, in 1942. They returned after the war to Poland, where Wat began to write poetry again while serving as editor of the state publishing house. In 1963, he left his native country for France. Wat was invited in 1964 to the University of California, Berkeley, where he taped a series of conversations about his life and times with his countryman the poet Czeslaw Milosz. Edited by Milosz, these were published posthumously as My Century.

Curt Corrinth - his first novel to employ an Expressionist, frenetic prose and presented his excessive vision of free love, the sexual orgy as a means to salvation and universal copulation as a new world religion

 

Curt Corrinth, Potsdamer Platz, Or, the Nights of

the New Messiah: Ecstatic Visions, Illustrated by

Paul Klee, Trans by W. C. Bamberger, Wakefield

Press, 2021. [1919.]

First published in German in 1919, Potsdamer Platz was Curt Corrinth’s first novel to employ an Expressionist, frenetic prose and presented his excessive vision of free love. Inspired by Freud’s controversial disciple, Otto Gross, and his theory on sexual relations, Corrinth took this outlook to new extremes to preach the sexual orgy as a means to salvation and universal copulation as a new world religion.

The book’s provincial protagonist, Hans Termaden, arrives in Berlin, where he quickly evolves from city rube to sexual messiah as he converts prostitutes and virgins into sensual warriors and frees men of sexual inhibitions. As word of his exploits spreads, people throughout the city flock to his headquarters in Potsdamer Platz, turning all buildings into brothels as Berlin itself swells with an influx of population from England, France, and Mexico. Police and army attempt to bring order but themselves defect to take part in the spreading copulation as Corrinth’s prose itself begins to fragment and melt on the page.

Decried in its time as tastelessly over the top and more erotomaniacally obsessed than ecstatic in its vision, Potsdamer Platz today reflects its turbulent era and can be read as a portal into the cultural excesses of Weimar Berlin. This first English translation includes the original illustrations done by Paul Klee for the book’s 1920 deluxe edition.

Potsdamer Platz promises Ecstatic Visions, and it certainly delivers. Curt Corrinth's short novel is one of almost comic expressionistic excess

The story is simple: Hans Termaden comes to Berlin from the provinces, gets a taste of (and for) the big city, its freedoms, and, in particular, sex -- and he runs with it. He becomes a Messiah, his guiding principle sexual gratification -- not just above all else, but simply as all. It's not a hard sell: "he created more happiness than any human law was previously able to do".

His message quickly catches on:

all, all, all: praising the new covenant of the new messianic world: they blossomed, ardent, toward the higher purpose.

Everyone flocks to Berlin -- "Express trains thundered, incessantly, the awaking ones to paradise"" --, eager to follow the new true way:

Paris was depopulated, deserted; London mourned the Queen's abandonment; harems in the Turkish capital crumbled and emptied before sobbing eunuchs [...]

Berlin, on the other hand, our beautiful stronghold, registered a tenfold increase in population.

Of course, there are those who can't get with the programme -- and who come to threaten its happy success:

I name for you the weak-spined, sapless, aged, bloodless, marrow-less, dead to desire. They poisoned, slandered, practiced their antique morality, went on and on, panted, whispered, undermined, raged, swore, bore false witness, stormed about with buckling legs opposing lawful brazen events.

These were the danger.

And so, indeed, comes the counter-revolution.... Can the Messiah triumph over the: "old order, surviving in a corrupted state" ?

Yes, it's all very over-heated. The initial sexual release leads to a gush and then a torrent -- so also the narrative itself, reflected also in Corrinth's language, the account often a frenzy of words. It's all a bit -- and then much -- too much, but some of this does work well -- not least that first dawning of what sex can be and hold in Termaden's first experiences:

"I dare ! I want !

"Berlin, city of my dreams — Europe — the world —: wait, I am coming !! ——

Corrinth tries to drown the reader in this ecstatic excess, his writing a breathless rapid-fire flood of language twisted solely to these higher, baser purposes:

Hymnic new will boldly set out lived and living truths before the squealing ones, openly giggling and blushing, secretly triggering whirling carnal excitement and lechery-soaked visions.

Grammar itself is too conventional and rigid for what Corrinth wants to express and convey, and so he constantly pushes against its boundaries and even breaks some of the rules -- an effective technique (ably reproduced in W.C. Bamberger's translation), helped by the fact that Corrinth doesn't take things too far.

It is all quite ridiculous, too, and, honestly, not really good, even (though it certainly has its moments). But seen in its historical context it is certainly intriguing: Bamberger quotes Otto Karl Werckmeister's observations on the novel in his Introduction, specifically on the (potential) publication-date, and how the book can be seen differently depending on when it is placed: wartime Germany in early 1918 (when it could be seen as: "an act of cautious subversion under the threat of censorship"); the fall of 1919 (when it might be seen as: "a convenient mockery of political failure"); or in between, during the German November Revolution, when it might be seen as a commentary on those events.

Corrinth's vision of an ultra-decadent Berlin prefigures the Weimar image of the city, suggesting just how much was already bubbling under the surface even in that exhausted, impoverished time immediately after the war; it would seem much more a text from well into the 1920s than 1919.

Paul Klee's accompanying drawings are the main reason the work is still remembered, and it's good to see these here as well, a neat complement to the story -- capturing much of the unbridled wildness to it (if not so much the sex).

Potsdamer Platz is a curious work, and it does have the appeal of something taken to absurd extremes, in its language, philosophy, and basic plot. Short and brisk, it doesn't get mired in its own excess (though it can at times seem that excess is all there is to it ...); it does perhaps suffer some from its story being a bit underdeveloped. Still, Corrinth seems very much to have managed what he was going after -- blindingly bright ecstatic visions of a world in which sexual indulgence is the highest and overwhelming guiding principle. - M.A.Orthofer

https://www.complete-review.com/reviews/deutsch/corrinth.htm

Curt Corrinth (1894–1960) studied law until serving in the military in World War I, which resulted in his embracing an antiwar and anti-bourgeois stance through his poetry and then through a series of frenetically composed novels. Influenced by Freud’s maverick disciple, Otto Gross, Corrinth took Gross’s doctrine of free love to further, near parodic extremes in these novels, three of which would be banned by the Nazis in 1933. In 1955, he moved to the GDR in East Berlin, where he died five years later, his work all but forgotten in the western world.

Ivan Boris - a hallucinogenic detective mystery involving demonic Kantian philosophy, identity politics, the history of Surrealism, secret societies and mind control. Both a scathing satire and a sincere romance

 

Ivan Boris, My Week Without Gérard, Morbid

Books, 2021.

‘A surreal, slapstick nightmare set in the end-times of countercultural journalism.

‘In search of France’s superstar philosopher who has mysteriously vanished, Lester Langway, a young, bedraggled freelance reporter for the failing London style bible Down N Out! magazine, is sent to Paris to solve a hallucinogenic detective mystery involving demonic Kantian philosophy, identity politics, the history of Surrealism, secret societies and mind control. Both a scathing satire and a sincere romance, My Week Without Gérard is so squarely at odds with the culture it mercilessly lampoons, it’s little surprise the author writes under a pseudonym.’

“Any book with bathroom drugs, coffin sex, awkward romance, conspiracy theories, thinly veiled characters based on people I know in contemporary euro society, and my bloody death scene, has a spot on my bookshelf.” — Rick Owens

“It is rare to encounter people who not play a role, even when they are alone.”

‘A great piece of fictional journalism that drags you down the twisted road of drug and occult mania, stuffing you full of satirical philosophies and dadaistic nightmares along the way. Boris’ cultural references are as far-ranging and eclectic as they come, but even the artists and intellectuals that are usually placed on pedestals are not safe from his scathing criticism of middle-class self-flagellation. This truly was a fun piece of work to read and try to decode; very digestible and with no shortage of humour, it makes for an impressive debut novel.’ — Elliot Carter

‘Hilarious, compelling, a countercultural classic. A work of sublime order. Fear and loathing in occult Paris. The author has created a world that is profoundly humorous, while managing a deep sincerity throughout. Join Lester Langway, a British Journo, for an odyssey into the bowels of the Parisian occult-underground. Walk deep into an eclectic textual-tapestry; one that is both hallucinogenic and fulfilling. As a reader, My Week Without Gérard is an extremely pleasurable experience.

‘It is a fine novel, one that deserves much more contemporary attention. I mean, where else can we go and see Breton, Uri Geller, and Arsène Wenger all in one place. If you have sense, all Morbid Books releases should be on your radar.’ — Callum Berry

‘Darkly comedic, absurd and disorientating My week without Gerard weaves surrealism and the occult into a journalists bizarre investigation throughout Paris. Reminds me of Inherent Vice if it took place in the modern day, but centered round a deplorable human being.’ — Laurence

Like the greatest mystery stories, the pseudonymous writer Ivan Boris’ excellent new novel, My Week Without Gérard, is a labyrinth without a center. There is nothing to unravel here. There is no secret knowledge to be unearthed. No, instead, the mystery’s essential unknowability IS its only revelation; its ineffable enigma, its fluid arrangements of scenarios, characters, and even timelines, is its mesmeric allure. And not unlike other mystery or detective novels that similarly experiment with form and generic style, My Week Without Gérard demonstrates a stunning clarity about the culture and political economy that it was written in. The empty mystery that holds the novel together, is the same mystery that perplexes us all in liquid modernity. None of it makes sense. None of it seems real. If so much is happening, then why are we in stasis? While it skirts neatly tied up narrative implications, there is a profound – even disturbing, perhaps – philosophical insight here,

Similarly to Thomas Pynchon in Inherent Vice, Boris utilizes the generic structure of detective pulp fiction as raw material that he can deconstruct, fragment, and imbue with a freewheeling experimental sensibility. Inherent Vice has been written off by some critics as Pynchon’s detour into light reading, and that criticism isn’t exactly false. But Pynchon also managed to subvert the well-worn genre tropes of the detective novel in a way that materialized his pseudo-philosophical cultural critiques more legibly than any of his masterpieces had prior: paranoia, conspiracy, social change, drugs, and more. Boris employs the structure to similar ends, and the mystery “plot” becomes a thread that he uses to tie together a hallucinatory and temporally fractured literary space. The novel is hilarious at times, and transgressive throughout. But unquestionably its greatest strength is in its conception of the world we live, or at least, the phantasmagoric simulation of a world that we live in. And the anxiety we feel in it. And the desire we have to escape it.

The novel follows an ambitious and unusually art historically sophisticated – if generically narcissistic and drug-numbed – journalist named Lester Langway, who works for a failing, formerly hip style magazine (similar to Dazed or The Face). Lester heads to Paris to locate a Foucaut-level famous philosopher named Gérard Derenne, who has gone missing. Lester encounters problems in his search for the philosopher almost immediately. First, it appears that his editor from Down N’ Out! magazine has no recollection of assigning Lester the project, and has ceded control of his publication to his authoritarian, clout chasing assistant. His interview with fellow philosopher and Derenne’s best friend “Jacques Dutronc” (cleverly named after the French pop star of the same name, emphasizing the fluidity between intellectual life and fame in post-digital capitalism) goes disastrously. And finally, Lester finds himself at the center of a Me Too! Scandal when a female associate of Derenne’s goes to the press and describes the prank phone calls that Lester has been sending her way as “abuse,” and – in a brilliant satire of the cowardice displayed by bourgeois creative institutions’ failures to protect their artists from unfair smears (Jon Rafman, anyone?) – Lester’s union doesn’t even attempt to protect him from the character assassination or the media distortions around the accusations. All through this, there is a femme fatale of sorts, Anaïs, who signs on to Lester’s project as his photographer, and the two embark on a very bizarre, but rather erotic, romantic journey together, that keeps the deeply bizarre story grounded in mercifully familiar images.

The more calamities that befall Lester throughout the story, is the further that Boris drags us down into an abyss of surrealism, temporal slippages, and the depths of a drug and literature-soaked mind. At a certain point, the book becomes less of a tale of mystery and investigation and more of a psychedelic and opioid-spiked fever dream residing within the subconscious of the artist who feels like he was born in the wrong era. The second half of the novel is to the first what Twin Peaks: The Return was to Twin Peaks: the warped, mirror-image phantasmagoria of it. It becomes a poem of nostalgia, and a mourning for the radical avant-garde of early modernism that has further collapsed in the 21st Century.

My Week Without Gérard is a French modernism bibliophile’s wet dream. Throughout, there are bountiful references to Bréton and other surrealists like Artaud and Bataille (both of whom were eventually ousted from the group, but whatever). The Bureau of Surrealist Research, which was historically opened by Artaud in 1924, is reimagined as a kind of museum, or is possibly still in existence somehow (in the context of the novel), as an echo of time, or a murmur of Lester’s vivid imagination (but more on that later); it appears throughout the novel that in this Bureau of Surrealist Research, a Pandora’s Box is waiting for Lester to come and open it. The Bureau becomes centered as the portal between our world, strange as it already is, and the one that Lester enters, which seems to follow a slippery logic similar to the Polish town depicted in Bruno Schulz’s The Streets of Crocodiles. A fog of uncanny emerges from the Bureau that renders all the events and locations that follow it strange… There are references to psychologists, from R.D. Laing to Jung to Wilhelm Reich. And then, there’s the magic. The occult. Colin Wilson’s The Occult. Alejandro Jodorowsky’s Psychomagic. Peter Haining’s The Necromancers. The literary references allude to a rich interiority attempting to escape outwards. The mind. The imagination. Magic. And that’s where Boris forces us to ask: “What is really happening here?” Is this an occult voyage into the heart of a mysticism-saturated, modernism-haunted Paris? Or is it the psychological landscape of an alienated, drugged out, tragically nostalgic, and literature obsessed psyche? The joyful psychosis of the novel is in making no such distinctions between these two notions of its content. Just accept its unlogic. “In the 21st Century, a schizoid personality can be an asset,” says Lester to Anaïs at one point in the novel. Too true. In fact, it might not just be an asset, but a necessity, suggests Ivan.

There is a deliriously reactionary sensibility that courses through the novel. Lester longs for the poets and writers of Surrealism and of early modernism. He drifts through a Paris that only exists in the recesses of his imagination, a Paris that he has embedded into his interiority through his reading and made his inner world. I identify with Lester’s condition. He’s out of time. He wants to be a kind of artist that simply isn’t allowed to exist anymore. He missed modernism by decades, and even the cheap postmodern imitation of it found in “radical” British style magazines is on its last legs. He came in at the end of art’s dilution and just before there was no more art to dilute at all, just “visual culture” to dispose of and ignore. Where do you go from there? He has no choice but to retreat inward. This is, quite often, a book about the collapse of art itself. Boris unearths black comedy in the digital graveyard of post-postmodern art and literature. Derenne in the novel is a philosopher, sure, but he’s even more so a celebrity and a vulgar, neoliberal elite. Boris suggests that the only artists that are gifted with any kind of cultural presence or platform are those that metaphorically (or physically) fellate the encrypted forces of power that dominate beneath the shadows of conspiracy.

In one of the most unforgettable sequences of the novel, there is a peculiar tragedy in Lester’s attempt to hex three unnamed conspirators that have plagued his project and his quest (Derenne, perhaps? Dutronc?). In a nothing short of ecstatically fucked up sequence, Lester performs an erotic blood rite with Anaïs and an occult knowledgeable supervisor, who guides the couple through the process. “Lester entered Anaïs smoothly and held himself inside her, blood squelching,” writes Boris. “Mike lay his hands on her head and instructed her to suck the light from Lester. Lodged inside her with his eyes closed, it took a great deal of Will to keep from releasing his power. ‘I’m going to cum,’ he said more than once.”

And yet, despite all that “power” flowing through Lester, the ritual gets him no closer to his goal, no closer to Derenne, and no closer to understanding the world or rationalizing his own place within it. But Lester isn’t just lost in his own interiority. His fantasies of early modernism aren’t even built on anything resembling historical reality. At a later point in the novel, for instance, time starts to collapse and come undone. Worried about Anaïs’ psychological state after the ritual and a bad psilocybin trip, Lester brings her to a mental health facility, that we learn is Wilhelm Reich’s Orgone Institute. Lester’s encounter with the famed psychoanalyst and Marxist “free love” theorist is presented as neutral, as if Wilhelm is exactly where he ought to be; like it’s not strange at all that a man who died decades ago is taking patients into his hospital in the 2010s. And while Lester is excited to meet him at first (who wouldn’t be?), Reich quickly reveals himself as a quack doctor who imparts his untested theories onto vulnerable patients, sometimes irreparably fucking them up. It turns out that the radical ideas that make The Orgone Energy Accumulator, Its Scientific and Medical Use such wonderfully weird reading are also what make him functionally terrible as an actual physician. So not only does Lester long for something that has already long since passed, he longs for something that maybe never was. His contempt for his own epoch has made him uncritical towards the history that he has imbued with a near supernatural importance. He’s so alienated from his own reality that he has to imbue his own aesthetic and ideological biases onto a former era that he fetishizes. Is that not the very definition of reactionary?

But Lester is, nevertheless, empathetic, and his reactionary tendencies are presented as perfectly logical in the context of the novel. Does Lester eventually find Derenne? He sure does, but it’s so besides the point by the end of the novel that it feels like it barely happens at all. Lester gives new meaning to the term “unreliable narrator,” because he is too lost within his own fascinations, perversions and fantasies to give an accurate account of anything. But given the world he lives in – cancel culture, shadowy elites, the collapse of meaning, a decadent empire in steep decline, abject cynicism masquerading as coherent politics – can we blame him?

Lester presents himself as something of a surrealist journalist, or at least that is his goal at the beginning of the novel, and the world no longer has any tolerance for an artist with that kind of ambition. The only publisher that will work with him is a failing style bible, and even they are losing patience with the ideas that he brings to the table (“We don’t do philosophy!” says his editor, at one point). Humorously, Rick Owens is depicted throughout the novel as a pillar to the kind of artist that Lester on some level wishes he knew how to be. Owens – a fashion designer with a ruthlessly specific viewpoint, a sculptor of brutal forms with a seemingly limitless imagination – simultaneously embodies the unhinged creative id of an earlier modernism while also still maintaining a massive cultural presence and the material riches that fame coincides with in post-digital neoliberalism. Rick is both a “sexual personae,” and a pop media superstar. To maintain that level of artistic integrity AND world wide recognizability is nothing short of astonishing. Rick Owens is an artist that belongs in the here and now. Lester doesn’t. Lester envies him. I envy him. I am Lester Langway, and like Lester, I retreat into my interiority to escape the alienation that subsumes me. Like Lester, I would rather waste away forever in my own “Library of Babel'' than slowly go insane in the schizoid landscape of a broken culture that no longer places any value on creativity, iconoclasm, or freedom. The world within. The world I’ve built. The material world around me is just too cold, and too ugly. - Adam Lehrer

https://safetypropaganda.substack.com/p/i-am-lester-langway