This book is feisty; whether it thrills or exhausts you reveals your own tolerance for outré reading.
Purnell, a performance artist, musician, filmmaker, and writer, dives deep into the pathologies and delights of sex among gay men in this dizzying novel.
In these pages, the unnamed, formerly homeless protagonist, a “jaded judgmental borderline misanthrope” who’s also really funny, describes so much sex with a “nameless void of men” that it’s a wonder he doesn’t rub his fingers raw from undoing his pants so often. There’s sex on the protagonist’s European concert tour, bad sex with a Satanist in America (“if this was Satan’s best sex warrior it stood to reason why Satanism in general was such a PR nightmare”), and an obsession with a straight co-worker that compels the protagonist to masturbate in the office while watching him. Structured in short vignettes, the book is mostly told in a confessional first person, which make the stories feel autofictional. There are so many short episodes of sex that the book reads more like a diary—a vibrant, saucy, dishy, punk diary. One example: The protagonist, feeling lonely, hires a sex worker to act like a boyfriend, so the guy, just doing what he’s paid for, keeps whispering “I love you, boyfriend” in the protagonist’s ear. “He was beginning to feel like a boyfriend in that he was already annoying the fuck out of me,” Purnell writes in a typically knowing, self-lacerating insight. There are moments when Purnell steps back from offending delicate sensibilities to documenting real sadness and drawing wisdom in the process. The protagonist encounters a former boyfriend, “once a big beautiful star” who “has collapsed in on its own weight and turned into a black hole.” This man takes the protagonist to his parents’ home for Thanksgiving to an emotional void; his parents serve TV dinners for the holiday meal. “But this was one of the many holes he had in himself that he always made visible to me,” Purnell writes. The only nagging question this book engenders is why it’s packaged as fiction at all; it reads more like a memoir/manifesto that gay sex is still a rebellious act.
This book is feisty; whether it thrills or exhausts you reveals your own tolerance for outré reading.Pub Date: Feb. 2, 2021
ISBN: 978-0-3745-3898-9
Page Count: 192
Publisher: MCD/Farrar, Straus and Giroux
Review Posted Online: Nov. 17, 2020
Kirkus Reviews Issue: Dec. 1, 2020
BOOK REVIEW
BOOK REVIEW
A deliciously creepy book.
In the spirit—a word used advisedly—of M.R. James, British novelist Lanchester delivers a splendidly eerie suite of stories.
The opening story in Lanchester’s collection, “Signal,” sets the tone nicely. A college friend of the narrator’s, who has grown unimaginably wealthy (“The driveway of Michael’s big house was so long that even after we got there it took a while to get there”), can buy everything he wants except a decent Wi-Fi signal. Enter the spectral image of a tall man in a household full of short ones—one, a Bolivian, is a comparative giant back home among “the second-shortest people in the world,” but barely qualifies here—who, it appears, is still trying to get a reliable connection from the spirit world. In “Coffin Liquor,” whose title comes, Lanchester’s narrator explains, from “the liquefaction of improperly preserved corpses,” modern vampirism meets the still more dreadful prospect of an academic conference. Wi-Fi figures into it, and so, in a Groundhog Day sort of trope, does Charles Dickens’ Great Expectations, all culminating in a psychiatrist’s weary assessment of the protagonist as someone suffering a psychosis with “the most florid manifestations.” One character is imprisoned in a dungeon straight out of Poe, another philosophically explores the question of whether we’re not ambulatory critters but instead “a brain in a vat” before being interrupted by a trope from the book of Revelation, still another snipes that the one book he can’t stand teaching is Lord of the Flies, since “glasses with prescriptions for short-sight cannot be used to start a fire in the manner that Piggy’s spectacles are.” It wouldn’t be a set of supernatural stories without at least one in which a painting comes to life, though, true to form, Lanchester brings in a selfie stick as part of the malevolent furnishings, to say nothing of a swarm of icky maggots.
A deliciously creepy book.Pub Date: March 9, 2021
ISBN: 978-0-393-54091-8
Page Count: 240
Publisher: Norton
Review Posted Online: March 30, 2021
Kirkus Reviews Issue: April 15, 2021
A fresh gathering that highlights the work of mostly well-known story writers through their lesser-known works.
A well-selected anthology of short fiction, ranging from long to flash, representing the last half-century.
Former Granta editor Freeman writes in his introduction that where the 1960s were once seen as a fulcrum of the short story form, the succeeding decade has “begun to seem like one of the most fertile periods of American life.” Certainly that was a time when writing by members of marginalized communities, post-apocalyptic science fiction, and politically engaged reexaminations of history came to the fore. All these strands are represented in Freeman’s collection, which begins with Toni Cade Bambara, a writer not heard from often enough, whose “The Lesson,” from 1972, finds a group of Black children inside F.A.O. Schwarz under the aegis of a well-meaning college graduate who has returned to the neighborhood. The narrator, beholding a $35 clown doll (that would be about $220 today), imagines asking for the money from her mother: “ ‘You wanna who that cost what?’ she’d say, cocking her head to the side to get a better view of the hole in my head.” The exotic field trip yields one lesson for the children: “White folks crazy.” Certainly you’d think so on reading Grace Paley’s “A Conversation With My Father,” with its story within a story of a boy who has become addicted to drugs in “the fist of adolescence” and whose mother, not wishing him to feel isolated, joins him in junkiedom. Andrew Holleran evokes the ravages of the AIDS epidemic in “The Penthouse,” a long story from 1999 that is full of ghosts but scores the comic aperçu that because sex is off the table, “it seemed as if that was all there was to do in New York: eat in public.” George Saunders packs a story into 392 words; finally recognized as a literary writer, Stephen King turns in a characteristically spooky tale; and the closing stories, from Ted Chiang and Lauren Groff, speak to impending extinction, death, and fear.
A fresh gathering that highlights the work of mostly well-known story writers through their lesser-known works.Pub Date: May 4, 2021
ISBN: 978-1-984877-80-2
Page Count: 496
Publisher: Penguin Press
Review Posted Online: Feb. 9, 2021
Kirkus Reviews Issue: March 1, 2021
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