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Ever

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I'm going to begin and end this review with this recommendation: Buy and read EVER by Blake Butler.

Here is why, and briefly:

EVER is a story of mud and light and houses and metaphysical shifts in conscious, shifts in body and being and time. EVER is a story that leaves you feeling bruised and emotional and larger than you were before.

Blake Butler's sentences are often better and more pleasing than those of Lutz, McCarthy & to those of Williams and Lish. I feel Butler's sentences have a more aggressive sonic imperative. As you read, you really are (to use one of EVER's frequent words) slushed along by sentences heavily marked by S's. And when Butler reverts to a sonically dull sentence, often containing the most poignant/banal remark, the words hit you that much harder, because of the impact of all contained behind that sentence slamming forward into you. And when the tone and composition of the sentences and paragraphs shifts, you feel it. It's a visceral change.

The ideas contained in EVER expanded my thought on words, on lyricism and style, on literature. EVER is affective and brutal and beautiful. EVER is a highly creative work that truly feels original, feels new.

Buy and read EVER by Blake Butler.

Blake Butler brings off sentences that at once estrange & seduce, their phrasing & pacing like some 21st-Century resurrection of the Middle English, constructed w/ an ear to assonance & buried rhymes. From the second page of EVER: "In the light my skin was see-through -- my veins an atlas spanned in tissue." Not much later, more pugnaciously: "Streams of night might gleam like glass. The dirt would swim with foam." Appreciation of this small, scary miracle depends on appreciation of such beveled gems, the bits & pieces of which it's composed. Myself, I might as well've been knocked from my horse on the road to Damascus, & what floored me is also a miracle of compression. EVER contains only occasional full pages of prose, indeed it features a central sequence on which there are no more than a few lines per page, & it has interstititial designs to boot, faint gray hints of Gorey, breaking up the novella still further. Yet I find gleanings of story enough to sustain me. EVER tracks a soiled Alice (unnamed, actually) through the looking-glass & way beyond, drawn on by a force she can't understand, & that may eventually destroy her. But first she travels through room after room of a phantasmagoric home. Sample: "The next room was made of wobble. Magnetic tape streaming from the rafters, bifurcating blonde split-ends. Cashed." (& the rest of the page runs blank... inviting meditation, perhaps?) Strange as EVER's house-tour is, though, it nonetheless recalls a classic turn of the mind, the psychological phenomenon sometimes called "the dream of rooms." Such dreams can occur at any age, but they're most common near the end of life, as a person revisits all the arenas of experience. Garcia Marquez makes brilliant use of this phenomenon, for instance, when he anticipates the death of Jose Arcadio Buendia in 100 YEARS OF SOLITUDE. A more compatible figure for Butler's well-paced nightmare, however, would be Beckett's Malone, since if this girl too is dying, it's of some illness or wound she can never understand, in a place she can't say how she reached, & yet it's these very same gaps of self or soul that help her achieve a perverse assumption to heaven -- & the reader's along with her.

A fascinating first novel, or novella, or book, whatever you want to call it: text, fiction, leaves with words. In many ways, EVER is a response to the textual explorations of Mark Z. Danielewski's HOUSE OF LEAVES in its use of layout, illustrations, and the theme of interior spaces and the human psyche's reaction to such.

Butler has been making a niche for his writing in many leading journals, print and on-line, and it's a good time for him to move into having his own volumes. This is a remarkable debut for a writer to watch.

This is like a bullet made of those two books. A little bullet right in the center of head made of Danielewski and Ballard and fired into you on a wind of Hubert Selby Jr.

Yes I liked it. Yes I did. I saw brackets in my dreams.