R.J. Askew's Blog
January 30, 2013
Life being so beautifully tiresome, we read to be free to be the more .. alive. And when to read is not enough we write, o how we write and write and write, because the tyranny of instincts insists we create to reconstruct its universal dream o fwhat it is to be anew within this primacy of primes .. alive.
Hunter S. Jones' Fables of the Reconstruction bit my neck and ate my brains.
I shall be reading it again.
A gone wrong honey badger of a novella, FABLES OF THE RECONSTRUCTION MAKES no apology for not wiping its feet when it dances into your life because - I tweet you not - your life exists for it to be.
Brilliant writing does not mimic life at its best because it is life at its best, being, as it is, at the core of that medium through which life perceives itself to be language.
On the face of it, FABLES OF THE RECONSTRUCTION is about four frotting zombies frotting and feasting their ravenous way through the hirsute fistula that was steampunk London's Whitechapel, circa 1890.
Perhaps life makes zombies of us all with its incessant BDSM demands for more, more, always MORE!
What are we to do? Become aesthetes? Poets? Loggoffs?
No. We obey, drain ourselves in the quest for more, become .. zombies. Take a look at th the 07:38 train from St.Albans into London's St.Pancras station: zombies, planning, craving, pursuing their next feast of whatever, success, sex, success, succsex. I tweet you not.
FABLES OF THE RECONSTRUCTION is an exhaustingly refreshing read. The wording is sweetly seductive, especially in the teasing early graphs, the undead characters live with startling vigour, and the structure, with it varied voices and mischievous ending cap-W-works.
I would have read it all without blinking save my wimpish Kindle swooned at the sheer sexual potency of the Huntress's locked and loaded life force.
This, for this reader, was the ultimate joy in all this: the sense of playing host to a supersexuality at the height of her creative powers, climaxing repeatedly through my synapses with a wink and a smirk.
To quote from another of The Hun's stories the read for me was a 'comustive coupling'. And - I tweet you not - this graph perfectly captures how it felt for me when I was done: 'My legs were still entwined around him as we dreamily returned from that place to which your mind retreats after your body is satisfied.' Metaphysically speaking of course.
More? You want more? Over to the story .. a few of my fave dabs:
'Minzle quite suddenly and beautifully danced into my life. He was really something. Full of life and mischief was he. And gorgeous; he was gorgeous.'
'..a body built for pleasure..'
'The demon tongue wrapped around my *li* .. like two delicate, small, wet fingers.'
'We exchanged this knowingness without saying one word.'
I commend FABLES OF THE RECONSTRUCTION to you. Some will fine it far too alive, stronger minds will be enlivened by it and crave more, amore, amore. *bows*
Hunter S. Jones' Fables of the Reconstruction bit my neck and ate my brains.
I shall be reading it again.
A gone wrong honey badger of a novella, FABLES OF THE RECONSTRUCTION MAKES no apology for not wiping its feet when it dances into your life because - I tweet you not - your life exists for it to be.
Brilliant writing does not mimic life at its best because it is life at its best, being, as it is, at the core of that medium through which life perceives itself to be language.
On the face of it, FABLES OF THE RECONSTRUCTION is about four frotting zombies frotting and feasting their ravenous way through the hirsute fistula that was steampunk London's Whitechapel, circa 1890.
Perhaps life makes zombies of us all with its incessant BDSM demands for more, more, always MORE!
What are we to do? Become aesthetes? Poets? Loggoffs?
No. We obey, drain ourselves in the quest for more, become .. zombies. Take a look at th the 07:38 train from St.Albans into London's St.Pancras station: zombies, planning, craving, pursuing their next feast of whatever, success, sex, success, succsex. I tweet you not.
FABLES OF THE RECONSTRUCTION is an exhaustingly refreshing read. The wording is sweetly seductive, especially in the teasing early graphs, the undead characters live with startling vigour, and the structure, with it varied voices and mischievous ending cap-W-works.
I would have read it all without blinking save my wimpish Kindle swooned at the sheer sexual potency of the Huntress's locked and loaded life force.
This, for this reader, was the ultimate joy in all this: the sense of playing host to a supersexuality at the height of her creative powers, climaxing repeatedly through my synapses with a wink and a smirk.
To quote from another of The Hun's stories the read for me was a 'comustive coupling'. And - I tweet you not - this graph perfectly captures how it felt for me when I was done: 'My legs were still entwined around him as we dreamily returned from that place to which your mind retreats after your body is satisfied.' Metaphysically speaking of course.
More? You want more? Over to the story .. a few of my fave dabs:
'Minzle quite suddenly and beautifully danced into my life. He was really something. Full of life and mischief was he. And gorgeous; he was gorgeous.'
'..a body built for pleasure..'
'The demon tongue wrapped around my *li* .. like two delicate, small, wet fingers.'
'We exchanged this knowingness without saying one word.'
I commend FABLES OF THE RECONSTRUCTION to you. Some will fine it far too alive, stronger minds will be enlivened by it and crave more, amore, amore. *bows*
