REVIEWS for THE VANISHING POINT OF DESIRE
2. The images in The Vanishing Point of Desire are wonderful. Some, like the woman as horse or the "seahorse posture," blossom immediately. Others, like the garlic, are born withered but blossom as one reads. As they are woven into the story, they grow wings and take off. As the garlic is made to be death, it takes on a life of its own. I think certain readers might have been put off by a sense of formlessness, but the opposite is true: the author has a very precise form, through which the constantly shifting images and characters move. Formal oppositions like "systolic" and "diastolic" or "death, time" and "Tree of Solitude, House of Intimacy" keep tension alive throughout the story and, far from being an uncontained narrative, the story builds layers as it grows, takes on new dimensions, and the nature of the whole thing is constantly in motion. The stasis of wheel meets the progression of the chain. It is very beautiful.-ALEXANDER GREENBERG
3. My first off-topic thought in reading was “Wow. You’re really good at this.”
My second was: “Huh. I guess maybe this writer’s a genius… huh.”
The few repeated paragraphs, even fewer (?) stray, repeated sentence pairs and trios. Isolated. Accumulated. And the kitchen the airport the conference room. The window, door, corridor. Tree, the way things only half-fall. Everything that descends. Abyss-like water, light like water. Figurative marriage. Things in combination. Spreading out and opening—light, hallways and doors, corridors. Mouths.
Is this a sexual fantasy—the husband, the internalization of initiative, barriers of words, unmet longing? A world hidden in ink. A Molly Bloom. Is this nostalgia—intimacy, death, time? The narrator describes balances, and hiding from touch. The narrator touches time. Is the narrator old?
I do not understand the use of death in this book. I do not want to underestimate it. My instincts hold back, cause me to question, an eye between clotheslines under the night. I want to overestimate it.
Drawings & paintings, ink & writing…
The writer is (at the very least) nearly a master of the music of prose. I’m a sucker for repetitions. Read for style. The scope: the book obviously pours out of itself, Courier New cover koi fish in a paper wave. Penned surf. A small black tsunami drawn up to the edge of a barricade. Writer-reader. Typewriter enthusiast. Who knows what the difference is between a fish and a wave.
Experimental presses. Independent stuff. I’m not anti-pop, or antinooks. Is writing too intellectual? Why does counterculture, I mean why does underground writing have an alliance with the academy like it does? Definitely not true of music. I heard a hipster joke. ‘If mainstream is looking for sultanas in rabbit droppings, the indie stuff is a dried fruit shop.’ You can dehydrate a guava.
Is the book ecstatic? Writing is lonely. There’s the-story-the-vision, the way of drawing connections (or of limning disconnections in beautiful, tasteful, trembling or self-flagellating ways, a quivering of pink pulp or ropes or a voice). But the writing seems proud.
Is unrequited love possible, still love, at the end of us? –GRAVITY D