Customer Reviews

Was: annales nomadique: a novel of internet

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And to look to his evolutions is to foresee evolutions in process, and yet to come. Joyce is so attuned, his prose so refined, he is oracular.

Was a blanket like statement or full of question, of cloud and star? A transAtlantic vignette vineyard. A bonbon eclair adventure. Of the glassy memory spectacle, of the ant-eye grandeur, not to gloss over the ready turn of the cork. Snatches abound sampling the romantic, enumerable tongues on display, altogether in different languages. Colorful, evolved, negative to some degree, lovely, loving, and lonely. Bloody knuckle, ram's head. Rampant chemistry. Tumescent, tubular, resplendent, intercontinental: compact, but massive. A born lyric, compounded, fractured. Predominantly esoteric, and educated. Rosy mindful poetry combined with fresh sketchbook prose rosaries in the tradition of Irish writers, of bodhi sages, and of course of Michael's own kind. Its structure judiciously ushers forth each representation, and glimpse by glimpse they fail to eclipse the uncertainty in which consciousness seemingly must swim (sometimes in arithmetic equations).

Was cannot contain its many rhythms, neither the micro-beats of its stunning language nor the grander sways of its longing for life. "Spherical plane" indeed, it pulls us from one stoop to the next, dropping in on and out of talk and text, forever in medias res. We soar from here to there, but here is often about there, the limbo of travel, the lost in translation. As we "lap and lapse" against the shore of this world and the next, not quite countenancing our interactions, it's hard not to yearn for the one thing missing from you and youse and hither and yon: the past 1st and 3rd sing. of BE.