Numéro Cinq posted my review of Stig Sæterbakken’s Self-Control this month. Also, two new stories were accepted in February—one in Thrice Fiction and another in REAL—and I’ll have a review of The Longest Race by Ed Ayres out in Pace Running Magazine later this Spring. Surprised by how productive February turned out!
Numéro Cinq recently posted my review of Shane Jones’s Daniel Fights a Hurricane.
“Beauty in novels is important to me,” Shane Jones says in a recent BOMB interview. “I really don’t care for novels that have an agenda, a political statement, a sassy take on contemporary society. Give me something fucked-up and beautiful.” Wistful yet playful, Shane Jones’s novel Daniel Fights a Hurricane wrings out an unsettling story about madness and suffering for love. It’s a novel reminiscent of Don Quixote, some stories in the Christian Bible, and accounts of other eccentrics, but it’s remarkable on its own merits for breaking with narrative orthodoxies while uncovering what is soulful and heartbreaking about its characters. And, yes, it has that hallucinogenic combo of being fucked-up and beautiful. Read the rest here.
My story “The Funeral Bill” is out in The Best American Mystery Stories 2012. It originally appeared in the New Orleans Review.
Numéro Cinq recently posted my review of Autoportrait by Edouard Levé
Edouard Levé took his own life ten days after delivering his final novel Suicide to his publisher. Assembled pointillisticly, Suicide is without much narrative, but Levé holds your attention through insights regarding the act of suicide and his patient rendering of a man who takes his own life at the beginning of the book. There is a lot of guesswork on the part of the author in Suicide, but Levé manages to give a poignant depiction of this young man, his personality, eccentricities, and motivations. Autoportrait and Suicide resemble each other in style, except the former is about Levé himself, and Autoportrait is without the latter’s lucidity, which is in keeping with Levé’s philosophy, as he writes: “Only the living seem incoherent. Death closes the series of events that constitutes their lives. So we resign ourselves to finding a meaning for them.” When it was written, Autoportrait was about a living person. The rest is here.