Real-Time Reviewing as Dream-Catcher

Still sliding deliciously through this book as through a dream. But unlike some dreams, I hope I shall never forget its effect, its effect during reading-time as well as its effect as end-result. Hence, for example, my real-time review here in the (never-to-be-forgotten?) aether! The reason I invented real-time reviews of this nature by starting to do them three years ago almost exactly?

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One response to “Real-Time Reviewing as Dream-Catcher

  1. BRIEF EXTRACTS FROM THE COMPLETED REVIEW

    This incredibly knits together the spare textual look/feel of Cormac McCarthy’s ‘The Road’ with a Lovecraftian texture! […] And where are the Man and Boy of our Road and Journey? – within the single self? Just look at the ‘Sr.’ in the author’s name.

    “. . . men transmuted from dust … women knitted from dead tomorrows,”
    Dust is pulverous. And I wonder if I should be seeking a gestalt from the Chomu canon as a whole. Their previous book was by Joe Simpson Walker. This Joe Simpson Pulver? To walk the road. To pulve the print’s stitches. The text actually pulses, too. Pulses in and out, narrow tower of text, wide shank of text, as past and present merge.

    The pulverine infused glass? “But somewhere in there the boy still exists.”

    The Todash of Tindalos. “…the repeated phrase of a strange-sounding harp, whispering bells,…”

    From the cradle to the grave, it is the search, the incurable search for The Self.”

    Accreting phantasmagoria and magi that I can’t exhaustively cover in this real-time review, of course, but, at core, I sense a rite of passage along the inter-connecting, changing needle-points or Mono-rails of meaning (Moon balcony-rails?): a quest-strewn ’regression’ towards imagined or real childhood abuse as part of the pulverised and/or synchronised glass shards of random truth / fiction … seeking, for me, a ‘Dark Tower’/“clock tower“ self or “Another lost highway“, a last balcony, a nemonymous night, a “needle night“, a classical horror situation, a casting-off, an “autumn sonata“, an anthology of anthologies, a book of books with the same knitting-pattern but different words, or the same words but different knitting-patterns…

    this compulsive, impulsive, impulverisable book

    “Hard to survive these days of downturn and destiny that have come up empty now that luck skipped out. Lot of dreams didn’t come true.”

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