#1
Post rating: ~
is Assisted Living by Nikanor Teratologen. feel free to look it up for yourself. a section on the back reads, “leaving no horror unattended to, be it murder, incest, nazi fetishism, substance abuse, or even continental philosophy.”



the amazon link: http://www.amazon.com/Assisted-Living-Swedish-Literature-Series/dp/156478682X/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1334151309&sr=1-1

i’m about ten pages in and it’s funny, dark, insightful, creepy, astonishingly well-written, exciting, and a million other praiseful adjectives. i recommend you read it. every other line is worth quoting and showing to a friend. just one picked at random:

— There comes a time in every man’s life, boy, when sight goes dim and orgasms are nothing more than bladdercramps … the people you love are gone and nowhere much feels like home … when tha thappens, it’s time to break yourself of the habit of living … you’ve made your peace … you’re ready to seek the light … because you’ve stopped fearing the dark …

obviously you’ll notice the Celinian ellipses; the rest of the grammar is high-quality as well. i can’t say enough good things of the ~10-15 pages i’ve read so far. it’s touted as a “book of evil,” but the characters are well-drawn and the premise is interesting in itself. teratologen is being repped as the ‘modern marquis de sade,’ but don’t make any mistake, he’s a much better writer from what i’ve seen so far.

perhaps what's most exciting about this novel is that it's written by a contemporary writer (there's a vice review on this but it's not very good and just about parading the 'bad stuff' that teratologen includes in the book) but actually reads like something that could have been written by a 20s frenchman, a russian writer from the khrushchev era, a postwar japanese absurdist, a modern american writer aping house of leaves who's also paid attention to his literary history, a contemporary of the marquis de sade, or even perhaps michel houellebecq himself. there's a marvelous range of language in only 15 pages: we begin in a chilling forest in the dead of winter ('It was so pure and still you could hear God breathe . . . So cold the spit froze on your lips and your eyelids stopped working . . . Grandpa had on Predator Camouflage gear, white with a black twigpattern, and a werewolffurcoat. He had on camelhairpants, roughluxury homespunshoes, a guneapigfurscarf and an NKVD hat.' The soviet hat chilled me!!!!') that's followed by an almost heart-warming scene of familial love between the grandpa and child ('How are you, Grandpa?' 'Not so good . . . Lately my body's all bitchbitchbitch . . . every second's a struggle . . .it'll be over soon . . . I think I hear the deat hrattle in my throat . . .' 'Are you sick, Grandpa?' 'I'm old and tired, kid . . . I've outlived myself . . . Now come here so I can hug you . . . My boy, my boy . . . I love you so much it shames me . . . and it's not your fault that Grandpa is sad and has to croak soon . . .'). these vivid scenes are preceded by a brilliant narrator who describes the 'found literature' that makes up the corpus of the book; it's beyond my powers of description to sketch this for you, i'd have to quote far too much, so i'll leave it to you to read; the scenes are also preceded by an absolutely hilarious letter describing the grandpa's death and subsequent reappearance in front of a church as a rude, disembodied head that offers to 'suck dick for a smoke, and for a drink lick women, but only in the ass,' before being charged by a group of crowbar-wielding sextons led by a certain Epileptic Martin.

in short, teratologen is working within the recognizable bounds of good world literature, but what he's writing seems to be completely new and maybe even unprecedented: this makes for an exciting novel; teratologen is doing something that all working writers today should aspire to.

Edited by discipline ()

#2
[account deactivated]
#3
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marquis de sade was actually really talented at times and it could be argued that he invented or at least innovated the modern forms of the novel. there are a lot of other reasons he's good though even if you say he was badatprose
#4
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#5
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also i read like 30 pages of immortality by kundera, this came in the mail, and i read like 3 sentences of this and immediately chucked the kundera book out a moving window. kundera's witty, self-conscious aphorisms have no place beside true literary power
#6
Poronto
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crank...up...the...ellipses...real...writers...are...too...hip...to...finish...a...thought...
#7
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3 ellipses says a thousand words
#8
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anyone have a link to download this book?
#9
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ellipsis is about the only way to remotely accurately depict a train of thought
#10
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all of those are self-contained thoughts in the ellipses. that's the difference between good ellipses and bad
#11
drivel of drunken hags
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what's the shelf life for nazism and incest no longer being shocking because both seem pretty much de rigueur for european art intended to incite moral panic amongst us prudish yanks
#12
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"Nazism and incest are my bread and butter. They are what I wake up to in the morning, and fall asleep to at night."
#13
Poronto
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why would you want to depict a train of thought. it's a purely physiological process and about as interesting as digestion, the gross flow of bile and chyme and the multicordant flexings of the intestinal tract when you what you really want to focus on is that perfect lustrous mahogany brown turd at the end imo
#14
drivel of drunken hags
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littlegreenpills posted:
why would you want to depict a train of thought. it's a purely physiological process and about as interesting as digestion, the gross flow of bile and chyme and the multicordant flexings of the intestinal tract when you what you really want to focus on is that perfect lustrous mahogany brown turd at the end imo


because joyce was great but his legacy sadly includes inspiring a bunch of hacks

#15
Mike Nelson here.
Post rating: ~

littlegreenpills posted:
why would you want to depict a train of thought. it's a purely physiological process and about as interesting as digestion, the gross flow of bile and chyme and the multicordant flexings of the intestinal tract when you what you really want to focus on is that perfect lustrous mahogany brown turd at the end imo

lmao

#16
drivel of drunken hags
Post rating: ~

Groulxsmith posted:

littlegreenpills posted:
why would you want to depict a train of thought. it's a purely physiological process and about as interesting as digestion, the gross flow of bile and chyme and the multicordant flexings of the intestinal tract when you what you really want to focus on is that perfect lustrous mahogany brown turd at the end imo

because joyce was great but his legacy sadly includes inspiring a bunch of hacks


and cool ironic anti-dualism

#17
Poronto
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sorry im just raggin ya. assisted living looks p. good im just resentful u didn't spend an evening ocr'ing and uploading it
#18
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Groulxsmith posted:
because joyce was great but his legacy sadly includes inspiring a bunch of hacks


much like my posting

#19
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what the f&ck has depicting a train of thought got to do with stream of consciousness writing
#20
Poronto
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well, they're both gay
#21
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i dont really 'get' stream of consciousness anyway
#22
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Impper posted:


theres nothing to get, mate.. its just a thing to read, like any other thing, except it's different a lil. youll get used to it

#23
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thx bra
#24
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the literary establishment really likes that sort of thing. whatsup w/ dat
#25
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who nkows/cares ahhe
#26
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Impper posted:
He had on camelhairpants, roughluxury homespunshoes, a guneapigfurscarf and an NKVD hat.



the penetration of dwarf fortress into popular culture is astounding

#27
penitent
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i wrote a stream of consciousness once, from the perspective of the unrepentant thief at the crucifixion lol
#28
drivel of drunken hags
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Post it
#29
penitent
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ok lol keep in mind this was a couple years back i think....
#30
penitent
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Father, forgive them; for they know not what they do

We did it all Dismas and I we took ‘em all I’m not sorry out in the desert we’d wait for the caravans and ride on over slice ‘em across the throat real quick the poor fuckers they had no idea we were coming before we were there and then we’d ride off with their stuff all the camels everything the camels never once faltered they never looked perturbed they don’t give a shit about people frankly and if you ask me they’ve got the right idea I’m not sorry sometimes we were out in the desert for days on end drinking as little as possible thinking about eating our horses the first time I did it with Dismas I was ashamed it’s an abomination I said we’re bandits he said we’re evil in the sight of God anyway and back in Jerusalem we got some whores and I felt better and eventually I wasn’t ashamed at all it’s not like I wasn’t brought up right or nothing our mum knew right from wrong all right she’d never fail to impress the wickedness of my actions on me she could swing a rod like nobody’s business I guess that’s why I went out into the desert because if I’m so bad I might as well do it properly but also because what the fuck else was there to do I could have joined the legions and died in some fetid bog up along the Rhine by the sword of some half-naked barbarian for an emperor who’d never know my name for the fucking Romans who killed my old man or I could hang around in Jerusalem doing odd jobs and living hand to mouth fuck that I’m not sorry every time we came back we’d get completely pissed on that good wine only the Romans can afford and get some girls and I’d see my mum and she’d cry that always left me feeling weird like someone had scooped out all my guts but it’s the life I chose and this is the death I chose too even if I didn’t realise it at the time I’m not sorry

Verily I say unto thee, today shalt thou be with me in Paradise

When they first hammer the nails in it’s all you can think about the pain screams at you it blocks out everything you can’t see there’s nothing except you and the pain but it fades it fades everything does until it’s just a dull ache and after a few hours you forget about your wrists and your feet because it’s every part of your body hurting now being stretched out every time you take a breath you can feel it in your stomach your legs your arms they start to ache but it’s a slow ache you’ve got time to reflect all the time in the world you can hardly speak though it hurts too much but Dismas is trying he’s trying to talk to Yeshua kook if you ask me never had any time for God myself all those priests up in the Temple eating the burnt-offerings they’ve got a pretty good racket going on next to them I’m holier than fucking Ezekiel and Yeshua’s lot I liked even less because they all had this terrifying sincerity about them like they actually believed and all that shit about no more rich men and no more poor men well that’d put me right out of business wouldn’t it if there were no more rich men to steal from I can’t see Yeshua’s face from here but I bet he’s got that look of smug serenity and I croak out even though it hurts so much save us I say if you’re the Messiah then save us why don’t you and Dismas turns to me and I see the sweat running down his face and his blood clotting in the pores of the wood and he says we deserve this Gestas we fucking deserve this we killed all those people and Yeshua ain’t done a thing wrong Dismas of all people coming up with this shit it was his idea to start with I liked the money and the leisure but I think he really enjoyed it when we robbed those people he got off on the violence and he turns to Yeshua and says I believe in you don’t forget me and Yeshua says he says he

Woman, behold thy son!

The aching is worse but I can still see not Dismas he can’t his head is bowed down I think he’s unconscious not sure his ribcage is still rippling under his chest still breathing I feel betrayed almost but I can’t blame the guy if he really thinks Yeshua can get us into Paradise I envy him there’s people around Yeshua’s cross women disciples his little band of weirdos and outcasts wailing and sobbing soldiers too of course holding them back there’s nobody weeping for me most of the mob’s gone now I thought they were there for us but it was for Yeshua although a good heavy rock to the head would send me off nicely right now better than the alternative if you know what I mean and then down the hill from Golgotha there’s the brown smudge of Jerusalem all the smoke coming out from all the chimneys across the city the whole place is choked by its own miasma and the sounds drifting up an amorphous hubbub the squawk of chickens the cries of traders the clacking of carts everything sourceless formless it swirls around me the Temple though you can see the Temple its crenulated walls with their big cyclopean stones it rises right out of the noxious haze it seems to burn in the sunlight yellow and gold the thin black line of smoke from the burnt-offerings while in the cloud below a thousand colours swirl in the gyre you can’t see exactly where it ends but the hills rising up all around soft and green somewhere in them a little stream is winding merrily through the trees hares are dancing the air is full of the joyful buzzing of the insects everything is throbbing with the sheer vitality of it all there are no trees here no shade only dry earth and rocks scattered about and the holes in the ground where they plant the crosses the dirt is stained sienna piebald with dried blood when the wind picks up it blows all about my face I close my eyes but it still gets in my nose my mouth tastes of my own breath so dry my sweat-salt crystallises everywhere I itch all over so dry

Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani?

The wave of darkness I saw it cross the hills sweep across the forests wipe clean across the city I’m plunged into it the sun’s changed now it’s a thin ring of light and just black in the middle everything’s dark it’s like an eye the eye of God looking down and I shrivel up before its gaze yes I have done wrong yes I have sinned every evil thing I have done it and I am sorry I really am I know I cannot be forgiven cast me into Sheol let me wail in its darkness for eternity only avert Your eye I can’t face its accusation I can’t bear Your presence everyone’s terrified the soldiers too the disciples are praying because they all know that they’ve done wrong they all feel the interrogation of its eschatological gaze I can see them cower I can still see my body is a pallid purple glistening like a cadaver but from him from him from Yeshua there’s a glow faint but there’s a glow tendrils of light barely visible spiral around his head they reach out to the disciples to the Romans too even them encircling them winding around them all over Dismas caressing his face not to me though not to me I know I don’t deserve it I wonder if they can see it or if it’s only me shapes now bursting out phantasms made of light they’re

I thirst

Everything I can see everything still I don’t understand galaxies collide stars burn and fade nebulae swirl and on our little rock our tiny island in a vast empty sea our pinprick speck hanging in the middle of so much emptiness we pull ourselves up from protozoa to Praetors from eukaryotes to Yehudim apes band together and shed their fur they build cities they crucify people outside the walls Golgotha the rock of the skull I don’t understand

It is finished

Torn concrete and the mangled wrecks of cars rubble in every corner no surface is even fractures everywhere fissures running across the ground the churning swirling blackness of the sky not black not black exactly the dim light of the sun up there somewhere its light diffused in the cloud so all its furrows glow with an unearthly light that cloud looking more solid more real than the ruins the broken glass the chunks of concrete the twisted steel littered about in the jagged husks of the skyscrapers a few fires still burn flashes of orange scattered across the scorched landscape the only colour nothing is alive here no birds no insects there’s only the wreckage the charred skeletal trees the bones and the ash hanging in the air twirling in the wind finally coming to rest like it’s snowing heaping on the branches of the dead trees more now a flurry of ash carpeting the craggy ground make it smooth again blanketing the burnt-out tanks the contorted cars hide their shame make everything white again make it white and blank I can see everything still I don’t understand the mud a sea of mud shells bursting overhead the sky glowing with artillery a group of men running across the mud rifles in hand they are mired in its stench a machine-gun rattles and they fall they sink into the mud and in the distance far off but visible villages and vineyards trucks rattling over the unpaved roads I can see men with arms like sticks in striped shirts clinging to barbed wire eyes blank just looking stripped of all feeling not speaking I can see a wooden ship crammed with people shitting and vomiting in cramped cages gaping sores seeping pus rocked by a tumultuous ocean I can see soldiers in red uniforms before a moaning crowd children clinging to their mothers’ saris they fire gunsmoke billows and there is silence I can see a line of people their hands bound slowly walking up the steps of a pyramid to an altar where a man cuts out their hearts with an obsidian knife I can see the riders of the steppe bursting into the city I can see helicopters clattering over thatched roofs I can see missiles streaking through the sky I can see arrows arcing over the green fields I can see Cain weeping over the body of his brother I can see everything but still I don’t understand

Father, into Thy hands I commend my spirit

When I was ten years old I stole a trinket from a market stall a ring I think I didn’t know why I just saw it and took it and afterwards I walked with a strange gait like I wasn’t sure if I should be slouching with shame or striding triumphantly I had this feeling like an insect was gnawing away at me from the inside I showed the ring to Dismas and he said it wasn’t real gold and I said it looked cool anyway and I wore it on my finger just to show him and later that day near dusk when the slow-burning sun drapes a golden veil over the whole city I ran into the market-trader’s son and some of his friends and they recognised me at once and really laid into me they kicked the shit out of me I didn’t cry though even when I was spitting blood I didn’t cry because I remembered my dad didn’t cry when the Romans nailed him up for sedition I limped back home scuffed and bleeding my lip swollen one of my eyes all bloodshot none of the people on the street paid me any attention it wasn’t their business they didn’t want to get involved but when I got home my mum made an awful fuss she was wailing and raging and I told her everything the whole story and she didn’t get out her rod to strike me for stealing she wrapped her arms around me and I cried finally I cried and she said it’s OK now you are safe you are forgiven you are safe and I was I was home and I was safe and I was forgiven.
#31
YUNG JIRO AKA SHOWA STUNNA AKA
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hey pal how's about a link hmm
#32
YUNG JIRO AKA SHOWA STUNNA AKA
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Groulxsmith posted:
what's the shelf life for nazism and incest no longer being shocking because both seem pretty much de rigueur for european art intended to incite moral panic amongst us prudish yanks



yeah i mean i hate this type of degenerate shit in concept, but i usually find myself enjoying it...

#33
Kurdt
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thx for the rec imppr, ill check it out
#34
drivel of drunken hags
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jiroemon1897 posted:

Groulxsmith posted:
what's the shelf life for nazism and incest no longer being shocking because both seem pretty much de rigueur for european art intended to incite moral panic amongst us prudish yanks

yeah i mean i hate this type of degenerate shit in concept, but i usually find myself enjoying it...


i read bataille's story of the eye and it aroused me but i still thought "what a terrible book"

#35
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gyrofry posted:
thx for the rec imppr, ill check it out

no probs. there's a sort of 'crackling energy' to this book, or something like that. it's sweet. im readin it now, well, i mean iw as then i logged onto the posting machine.

its also relaly nothing like story of the eye g

#36
Post rating: +
ill give it a go but those themes don't sound that shocking

the most shocking and provocative literary idea these days would revolve around a traditional nuclear family with conservative values and sound morals overcoming adversity through faith and family
#37
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i never said any of the book was shocking, just that it was good. i can't help what the middlebrow literary establishment says about it; they're pretending that the content, a rehashing of sade, is somehow groundbreaking a whole ~200 years later. just look at that vice review, it's literally called 'a rolodex of atrocities' and it consists entirely of describing the atrocities in the book. it's really sad. then again probably without lumping in continental philosophy as the ultimate evil alongside incest and nazi fetishism i wouldn't have picked the book up. i genuinely laughed out loud when i saw 'and even continental philosophy'
#38
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probably the principle adjective i'd use thus far is 'funny'
#39
The Future is Here
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that guys name is just a ripoff of tetradugenica
as far as novels go i dont think they still make them
#40
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i dont think it was made just sort of spun out of underground cloth etc.