Long ago and all across the world we had msn groups, where I met many fine writers. One of these was the Maryland writer, Josh Davis. He has had three books published now through pretend Genius press, who are based in New York and also across America, Europe and the UK. Recently, I was fortunate enough to receive a copy of his latest novel for review.
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| cropped image from the cover of Vanishing is the Last Art |
Vanishing is the Last Art by
Josh Davis, (pretend Genius press) ISBN 978-0-9852133-0-5
Surely when
something is gone, a new thing has to take its place? Zero,
nothingness after all does not exist, does it? Thoughts of this
nature crowded in when I began this fine novel by Josh Davis. Also,
an artist who erases faces on printed pages from magazines or prints
of old masters sprang to mind and magicians' illusions, their
disappearing acts. But to vanish is not just disappearing which
implies reappearance, surely, this is about completely ceasing to be
or possibly changing so much it appears that way. Perhaps a witness
protection programme of some kind? Intrigued immediately in any case,
I wondered how Josh Davis would explain this supposed last art
effectively in a narrative and whether it was all just a trick to
draw a readership, but the unreality of his prose proved to make the
vivid, somewhat alarming story appear all the more real.
Life is absurd,
truth is stranger than fiction, a writer may entertain themselves
anywhere with their imagination. When other more practical folk seek
entertainment to distract themselves, we may create our own fancies
from the marvels of our own inner machinations. At first this book
appears to be an effective portrait of a young writer and his ability
to make the impossible appear plausible or vividly real, to himself
at least, throughout his typical and rather self-indulgent day. A
romance with reality, ever-changing. Surprising, everyday miracles
occur constantly. Every action and vision is pushed just that little
bit further than many people would find credible, except Davis
somehow manages to persuade us after a short while that this is
actually happening. Introducing doubt is persuasive, on the first
page. 'Or maybe I am hearing nothing. Or maybe I stopped listening.
Or maybe you stopped making sound.' Then by the second page, 'I stand
in the spaces in between spaces wondering how to become one or the
other.' Playing with language, introducing a bewildering array of
images and making it clear that in his world, anything could happen.
Perhaps the reader has vanished and is now somebody else?
It was difficult to
get into this book, since it does start off as it means to continue
and such an idiosyncratic world takes some getting used to. The
wonders of Davis' wordplay, imagination and persuasive powers did
make me persevere however, so within ten or so pages I was hooked.
This book also
describes such beautiful, intriguing women, urban adventures into
occult realms, strange deals around baseball cards which I alternated
between thinking represented the worst of consumer-culture addictions
to expensive dross, or were simply slang for some kind of psychedelic
drug, then simply accepted them as what they are, (however strangely
illicit they appeared), then there are road trips and falling over,
endless imbibing and a fantastic slew of litter, debris, belongings
and furniture. When Charlie Fell the main character says he could lie
on the floor and make a 'slacker angel' I laughed aloud. It was also
extraordinarily endearing when he expresses that feeling of regretful
idiocy people feel when they dare hope for a girl, (or boy) to call
them. 'I slip Gwen my phone number...Something resembling a gratified
laugh escapes my lips, and I secretly remind myself not to talk to
anyone, anymore. Ever.' Charlie's the lost marvellous boy, the
talented, kind man with a monster libido he tries to hide, the young
man still wishing he could stay a boy who nevertheless pushes himself
somehow to grow and change, even while appearing to be wasting every
precious minute of his waking hours with ludicrous pleasures, mad,
bad, dangerous company and fruitless desires. This book is a
celebration of hope and youth in a terrifying morass of the depths of
shallowness, (scary because it seems to be everywhere), with a
determined push for imagination and love to conquer far more material
and ruinous forces, after all.
Contradictions
appear, Charlie hates 'the bicycle shorts' while he's a 'real New
Yorker' but later loves the joggers, (who can't be dressed so
differently to the cyclists, can they)? He doesn't take cabs, proving
he truly belongs to the tough world of that great city, New York but
then within only six pages he does ride a taxi. We're observing a
real person obviously, rather than these anomalies making no sense.
The possibility Charlie may change his mind is evident too and stands
him in good stead when he takes a new tack.
Variety in the
writing also moves this novel along through stages, like we are
seeing a person develop as a man. The repetition where he's saying he
is a 'real New Yorker' and also later speaking about 'golden' p 128
works with elements of surprise and relief. Until then there's been
an unrelenting tide of startling, original and often a hallucinatory
language which has swept the reader along. Not that the oddities of
Charlie's thinking ever disappear entirely, but life for him has to
be more than it is for others because he is free. Inside his head he
recreates the world, strangles anyone overly curious and reinvents
everything else, (it does appear there is more than the world in this
story).
This author has
immersed himself so thoroughly in recent American literature that
it's forever altered his consciousness to the extent he completely
believes reality can always be altered, improved, added to, jazzed
up, or just played with like a kitten does with a ball of yarn. He's
rewoven America in its own image - always a place where circuses
appeared inside buses, girls grew snakeskin dresses like mermaid
tails and baseball cards enabled people to breathe, not that any of
those things are in the book exactly but the spirit of it is
somewhere near my thinking about them. This book inspires further
ideas.
A deep anxiety and
despair masked with imaginative delights underlies everything in
subtle ways, gradually appearing more apparent. Charlie checks out
the window to see if the world is still there. 'You didn't always
have to wake up and make sure there is still a world...' These
feelings of danger, alarm and the general air of disrupted
contentment gains more strength, but Charlie seeks a way forward in
any case.
Davis' phrasing,
humour and original use of language is superb, for example, p 88
'...after dark he is to art what Willy Wonka is to chocolate.' or on
p 174, '...vertical patterns like a wallpaper made of memory.'
(Inside someone's eyelids when they close their eyes). On p 126, '
"You like jazz?" the cabbie asks with enough sincerity to
blind a child.' So many fine quotes, every page.
I'd have preferred
there not to have been quite a few errors I spotted, including some
gaps in sentences, but most books do have some editing glitches.
Charlie is extremely
annoying at times. Young men who drink too much, move through the
world with little true commitment and interest regarding the wider
community, they irritate me. It's like watching someone pour good
water into a sewer and laugh about it, while not knowing where more
water is going to come from. Then the character reveals more depth,
some vulnerability and a searching quality I found fascinating so it
was worth persevering. Davis has also of course created a character
who appears real, if I was riled. I think the beginning of the book
could've been more accessible however and Charlie's carelessness
could've been revealed a little more gradually.
This is a journey
inside of a magician's top hat in any case leading to small, white
kitten morning-afters, frazzled rooms, smears of neon, nonsensical
fellow writer conversations, (hilarious), fascinating women in
various costumes with peculiar and banal requests, nut-case men and
old codgers with curious atmospheres carried with them, nicknames, a
search for something like success and...well, that's the story.
Charlie took me
along with him. How he does this is mysterious and wonderful and it
should be, magicians never reveal how they do their tricks but in
this case it's all done with words. Josh Davis accomplishes a great
deal and I'm not sure how he did it, but I can say the author does
vanish and his story takes over with some rewarding results.
