What is strength? Is it the quality of being able to dominate your surroundings and manhandle those around you? Or is it the quality of being able to withstand strife and torment, no matter how many times hell's lash stings your soul?

Sometimes we hold others in our hands. Sometimes others get their fist around us instead.



Is it ever possible to grasp someone while also being grasped? Must one person always be a monster, while another keeps them under lock and key, and another rages against damned, unholy love?

Is there any escape? And what did we do to end up here in the first place?

AS YOU READ "THE MONSTER OF SUNSET PARK," BY VICTOR GIANNINI, THESE QUESTIONS WILL HAUNT THE PERIPHERY OF YOUR CRITICAL FACULTIES LIKE STRUGGLING, ROTTING FLESH TURNING ON METAPHYSICAL SPITS. BUT IT IS ALSO A STORY ABOUT A DEAD MAN, HIS MOM, HIS GRANDMA, AND THE COLLECTION OF SIMULACRA THAT SIT STARING ON HIS SHELVES -- SHALLOW DEAD EYES THAT STARE BACK INTO SHALLOW DEAD EYES.

It's good. This story smells like worms. Someday, so will you.



Posted by miracle on Mon, 13 Oct 2008 14:28:01 -0400 -- permanent link