3 of 4 people found the following review helpful
Life is plainly *not* the same after a Meeks read,
This review is from: Months and Seasons (Paperback)
It's been a while since my last Amazon Review -- well over a calendar year, gadzooks -- yet some things are worthwhile coming out of retirement for, like the latest Christopher Meeks story installment.
I can remember how fabled Czech film director Milos Forman describing how he managed to cajole James Cagney out of retirement for his RAGTIME feature [...], albeit with very specific restrictions requested from Cagney. But such was the compelling nature of the Forman-esque cinematic ride. Such was the magnitude of Forman's stature that he was able to persuade, nay, drag Jimmy "Cody Jarrett" Cagney out of hibernation into adding A-List punch-up to an otherwise yeoman effort for the defecting former Bloc-head.
Lookit, kids, I don't care what walk of life you hail from, but once you get your claws on a Chris Meeks read, you ain't never going to think the same way about yourself, you heard? Because I know I sure don't.
Being a classic INT-J on the Meyers-Briggs scale, I generally eschew all manner of emotional displays. But, bizarrely, whether you'd catch me out at a Prague house of (dis)repute, or perhaps lying supine armed with my allergy pills out on a freshly cut sod patch in full view of the fair visitors to our golden burg, you'd see me heaving a sigh or three or maybe even hitting my lower (padded) jaw on a cafe tabletop.
How does he do it, I'll frequently mumble and gawk to myself -- hopefully out of earshot of my nearest neighbour, lest they think I'm lacking several in the stack of fifty-two, though hardly out of place in the former Czechoslovak capital, Kafka's former angst-ridden stomping ground. How does he manage to reach down so deeply within me -- having such similar delectable proclivities for all things existential, for all things deliciously globular (Mr. Meeks shares my penchant for ample, anatomically-gifted female endowments). How does he succeed in using words which so forcibly clobber me, with more impact than Michael Chiklis (as The Thing) swinging a lead girder he might have borrowed off the Tappan Zee Bridge my way?
I don't know, I answer to myself (again, hopefully out of earshot of the relevant audience), but I can't get enough of it. I never want to get enough of it, actually.
It's *this* kind of feeling as you read Meeks. "If I never read another story anthology in a decade, it would have been enough for us," you'll say to yourself. To have tickled the arboreal ivories of a Meeks read is to have come close to Clarity.
The Pied Piper. Catnip. Delicious milk chocolate the likes of which I can down by the half-kilo at a given sitting. Quickies in the bush. A walkabout in the city of Prague on an 85-degree day with all manner of XX-chromosomal material strutting around without much covering it all up.
Yep. All of these things and more are pretty much the cognates for the feeling you're likely going to have when you, too, get your hands on the shimmering paperbackness of MONTHS AND SEASONS.
And I guarantee you this, too: Chris Meeks will likely resent my review.
Wanna know why?
Because 172pp of his short story greatness just isn't nearly enough. MONTHS AND SEASONS will leave you agape and wanting so much more.
A gorgeous, lolling, erotic, fiery read. I never want to say namaste when it comes to Chris Meeks. The larger the double-barrelled meanest, most vicisous spherical sac of venom they come, the harder Mr. Meeks whoops 'em.
So many thank you's, from one of your most strident EU-based fans.
--Adam Daniel Mezei