Chapter One<\b>. Obsession turns to total hyperbole in a first novel modeled on—well, The Divine Comedy and Tristram Shandy, including Sterne’s unfinished sentences, blank page, black page and other typographical oddments, pertinacious misspellings, strangely numbered chapters, weirdly wandering trains of thought, whimsical humors, and stupors of sensibility.
Chapter Two<\b>. Dear reader, I love you. “I must tell you, reader dearest, that this is going to be a love letter. No more, no less. I have tortured my brain to lend some semblance of art to this undertaking, but all that I now aim for is that my love, my Abigail, know the depths of my heart, and that my said heart is her sole property, whether or not she choose to accept it.”
Chapter Three<\b>. Our narrator, undeniably Walt Foreman, first glimpsed the divine Abigail at a Lakers vs. Jazz game when from a far row she seemed to smile at him (perhaps) and his heart cried out, pierced eternally as was Dante’s by a glance from the divine Beatrice. But since then the sublime Abigail has not given him the diurnal tempus, leaving him to wail through Limbo under the guidance of Rock poet Rod, who wants to be Elvis but must attend his mother’s burial. As a salesman deposits the two hikers 50 miles from Memphis, the loquacious Rod comments, “Ain’t that somethin’? . . . That son-of-a-buck didn’t trust us. Hell, we’re white and everthin’. G*ddamn, I swear I don’t know what the world’s comin’ to. I hope my momma ain’t rotted yet.”
Chapter Four<\b>. [See Chapter One]
Chapter Five<\b>. As the old German writer Slawkenbergius noted about the birth of Shandy, the forceps of Dr. Slops grasped the wrong part of Tristram in delivering him bottom foremost. Might the same be said of a first novel delivered similarly? And yet, quixotically and unaccountably, Fairy Tale remains charismatically witty.
Chapter Six<\b>. A work intended by God for the comfort of mankind.