For I come from heights into which no bird has ever soared I know abysses into which no foot has ever slipped. įrom the Mountaintop: "I am the anti-ass par excellence, and on this account alone a monster in the world’s history. Then he ushers the patient into the Devil’s Castle.
Flechsig records the event in an eelskin notebook, glyphing his syntax in a stenographic shorthand. It takes the patient over twenty minutes to reach the top. Hands twisted into claws, he cranks his head and puts his ear to the marble, listening to the hum of the earth’s core, glaring at the doctor in stylized hate. Each new wave of distillate suffocates him, tears the flesh from his neck and back. The patient crawls upwards with slow resolve. In an alternate universe, the hot bitumen of his soul pours down the steps and tars the escarpment in an endless timelapse.
Flechsig stands at the top of the stairway like a broken reverie. Which brings us, at last, to the present zeitgeist.ĭr.
Sadly, the flowers have deliquesced in the humidity. The title of Freud’s 1911 seminal case study informs, if not coerces, the métier of this fleeting improvisation. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.ĭementia Praecox. The characters and events in this book are fictitious or used fictitiously. Published in the United States by Stalking Horse Press. Except for brief passages quoted for review or academic purposes, no part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author and publisher. Technologized Desire: Selfhood & the Body in Postcapitalist Science FictionĪll rights reserved. Ballard (Modern Masters of Science Fiction) Identity, or, Farewell to Plaquedemiaīattle without Honor or Humanity: Volume 2īattle without Honor or Humanity: Volume 1 Harlan Wilson is one of those rare voices in contemporary fiction that deserves to be called incomparable.ĭr. Wilson is both a ghost in the machine and a spanner in the works. If reality is a crutch, Wilson has thrown it away.Ī brilliant data screen of future memories. Wilson writes with the crazed precision of a futuristic war machine gone rogue.Īn orgy of violence and absurdity written with surgical precision. New bursts of stream-of-cyberconsciousness prose. Harlan Wilson moves so fast he strips his labels. Gonzo prose for the information age.Ī bludgeoning celluloid rush of language and ideas served from an action-painter’s bucket of fluorescent spatter.ĭ. Harlan Wilson has found a new language festering on the dark side of the moon. Wilson invokes a fistfight with the reader.
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