Innocent

A cult of hooded villains powered by violent blows to the crotch. A lizard demon named Charles. An elfin medicine man known only as Zen. Welcome to the bizarre world of Innocent, a recent graphic novel from King Tractor Press.

Part Captain Britain, part Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, and part Highway to Heaven (in a weird, brutal, absurd kind of way), Innocent is the story of a fallen angel who teams up with a bald, burly sociopath to set the world right. Yet where the divine duo of the early-eighties morality drama rarely found it necessary to parse the shades of gray that linger between good and evil, the basic tension that drives Innocent forward is that the title character is anything but that which his name implies. Yes, he can sniff out evildoers with uncanny precision, but his methods for bringing said evildoers to justice borders on… well, evil. As the fallen angel eventually laments, “It’s hard to fathom peace while looking through bloody eyes.” Wry commentary on American foreign policy, perhaps?

Equal parts magic and mayhem, the book reads like a frenetic walking tour through the graphic styles of classic indie comics from the late-eighties and early nineties. As the duo’s adventures progress, clean line drawings give way to wispy, ghost-like sketches and then to a style that borders on manga. This, of course, is because each chapter has been drawn by a different artist, the effect of which is to put a new visual spin on the main characters every twenty pages or so. In other words, we get to see Innocent evolve through a number of incarnations as his adventures continue. And continue they do.

Or at least I hope they do. The graphic novel ends with a cliffhanger in which the fallen angel’s life hangs in the balance. On one hand, it can be argued that this strategy robs the overall story of its natural arc; we’re not getting a graphic “novel,” technically, but an installment of one. On the other hand, however, by raising more questions than it answers, this volume does a nice job of planting the seeds for many adventures to come and certainly left me wanting more.

The Prisoner: Miss Fredom

I came to The Prisoner somewhat late in life. I was well into my thirties, and (as is the case with many of my fondest discoveries) I stumbled upon the mind-bending sixties spy drama quite by accident. In its infinite wisdom, the local PBS station had decided to air the entire run of the series in the space of two weeks, and I happened to be an insomniac. And so it was that I was inducted (or perhaps abducted is a better word) to the weird and wonderful ultra-planned-community-slash-prison that is The Village.

Although the original series was fairly short-lived, it remains a cult favorite to this day -- thanks in part to the fans who kept the series alive in the underground public imagination, and especially to the likes of Andrew Cartmel whose new novel The Prisoner: Miss Freedom (Powys Media, 2008) thrillingly brings the series back to life. Of course, those in the know would expect little less than a masterwork from Cartmel, whose work as a script editor for Doctor Who led to some of the most far-out episodes of that series, and this, his latest work, lives up to and perhaps exceeds Cartmel's reputation.

From the beginning, the reader is catapulted into the nightmarish world of The Village, and the opening strains of The Prisoner theme song are all but audible as the narrative moves forward. The premise this time around is that a serial killer has arrived in The Village, and only Number Six knows the full extent of his vicious past. Add to that an attempt on the part of parties unknown to rescue Number Six, the sudden appearance of a beautiful new female inmate known only as Number 666, a tango contest, and Number Six's participation in a creative writing class, and you'll start to get a sense of the tangled web Cartmel has woven.

Yet to simply say that Miss Freedom is a taut and thrilling spy novel only scratches the surface. What shines through most clearly in this novel is Cartmel's fine-tuned dry wit. A master of cunning juxtaposition, Cartmel frequently manages to fire off sentences whose apparent contradictions and playful punning reveal nothing short of a Pynchonesque sense of the sheer absurdity of life. For example: "It is the most extreme and totalitarian regime. They reduce human beings to mere numbers. I suggest we send agent 59/06 to put paid to their plans." Or this one: "The mission was breathlessly imminent, and since Granger's military experience had thoughtlessly failed to provide him with jump experience, it was imperative to go on a crash program." A "crash-course" in parachuting, hey? Clearly a sublimely twisted mind is at work here -- or at least a mind that is capable of appreciating the sublimely twisted world of words in which we live.

Without a doubt, The Prisoner: Miss Freedom is exactly what die-hard fans of the show have been waiting for-- a witty, fun, terrifying romp through the streets of the Village with Rover in hot pursuit. Cartmel is a masterful storyteller, and his dry humor keeps the story percolating through plot twist after plot twist. Thanks to him and Powys media,The Prisoner is back and better than ever!

Lost Son

Let's start with a confession: I've never read anything by Rainer Maria Rilke. When all of the hip kids in graduate school were exchanging knowing glances and speaking the author's name as if it explained everything, I played along and pretended to know what they were talking about, but in all honesty, I didn't know. In fact, I didn't even know whether Rilke was a man or a woman, alive or dead. All I knew was that the author was apparently at the center of a sublime cult, the members of which were transfixed by the beauty of his (or her) work. They spoke as if reading Rilke was akin to being touched by the hand of God. Either you got it or you didn't. Unfortunately, I suppose, I didn't. Upon reading Michael Allen Cunningham's Lost Son (Ubridled Books, 2007), however, I'm beginning to wish that I had.

Lost Son is a work of historical nonfiction that examines the emotional and intellectual development of the author in question--and does so beautifully. From the opening pages, the reader is transported to turn-of-the-last-century Europe, and Cunningham does a wonderful job of depicting Rilke's world in a strikingly visceral fashion. When Rilke arrives in Paris on a cold and wet winter day, it's impossible not to feel a chill. More importantly, Rilke emerges from the narrative as a complex figure, and his early efforts at writing a biography of Rodin prove both amusing and insightful... At least to someone who's never read Rilke.

Clearly, this novel is well-researched and written with passion. Cunningham, in other words, is one of those guys I used to play along with back in grad school -- nodding and pretending to have joined the cult when I actually had no clue. And, I should add, I still have no clue. Maybe one day when I find the time, I'll read some Rilke. In the mean time, I have to content myself with Lost Son. All told, not a bad deal.

Wing Walking

One of the things I like most about visiting independent bookstores is that the people who work in them tend not only to be very knowledgeable about the content of their stores but also to be much more friendly than their counterparts in the big chains. Case in point, on a recent visit to The Readers’ Forum in Wayne, PA, I happened to overhear a customer ask my friend Ed Luoma if he had a children’s book that would help her explain diabetes to her non-diabetic grandchildren. Without missing a beat, Ed told her that he had the perfect book for her and led her straight to it. If that’s not expertise, I don’t know what is.

On a separate occasion, I was talking with Ed about the literary offerings of independent presses, and he recommended Wing Walking by Harry Groome (Connelly Press, 2007). I’d seen the book on his shelves as I perused the store on previous visits, but I always assumed it was from one of the bigger publishing houses. Subtle and understated, the light blue cover looks very much like that of Don DeLillo’s Falling Man. Assured by Ed (whose own novel, Without Knowing It, is quite exceptional) that Wing Walking was a good read, I had no doubt that I was in for a treat.

Despite its title, Wing Walking is not about the airline industry. Rather, it’s about the pharmaceutical industry, and the title refers to the dangerous nature of attempting a corporate merger in the apparent snake pit that industry tends to be. Starting with the basic premise that there is no separating business concerns from personal relationships, the novel goes on to explore the myriad complications involved in attempting to juggle issues pertaining to family, friendship, profits, corporate responsibility, the concerns of shareholders and (in some cases) the national economy.

In a lesser writer’s hands, many of the issues touched upon in Wing Walking might make for a dull, textbook read, but Groome brings them to life vividly. His characters are strong, and their motives are complex: despite insisting that the balance sheet is all that matters, none of them can help succumbing to ego and giving into more personal urges as they simultaneously fend off hostile advances and plot to stab each other in the back. In many ways, this is the stuff of Shakespearean drama, and I must admit that I haven’t cared this much about the comings and goings of the obscenely rich since Tom Wolfe’s A Man in Full.

At just over 200 pages, Wing Walking is a quick and engaging read, a perfect book to take along on a long flight or to pass the hours on a rainy afternoon. To purchase Wing Walking, visit The Readers’ Forum online at Readers-Forum.com or in the flesh at 116 N. Wayne Avenue, Wayne, PA 19087. Alternately, visit the author at HarryGroome.com.

The Tea House

Technically, I should be getting ready for the Spring semester. School starts in a few days, and there are lessons to plan, books to read, emails to send, and a myriad of other duties to take care of, but I just spent the better part of the day reading Paul Elwork's novel, The Tea House (Casperian Books, 2007). Admittedly, I knew the novel would be a page-turner not only because I've come to expect good things from Casperian, but also because I was fortunate enough to read an excerpt of The Tea House when Philadelphia Stories ran a special online Halloween edition in October. What I didn't realize when I picked up the book, however, was how thoroughly it would haunt me.

Reminiscent of The Prestige and The Illusionist, The Tea House is a coming of age story about a pair of twins named Emily and Michael who claim an uncanny ability to commune with those who have passed on. Yet as word of their alleged talent spreads, the twins begin to realize that the distance that separates childhood from maturity is as great as that which separates the living from the dead -- and that returning from either journey is impossible.

What's most at stake in The Tea House is the relationship between the past and the present. Time and again, Elwork takes great pains to remind us that the adults in Michael and Emily's lives believe in the twins' powers not so much because of the evidence presented to them, but because they want to believe. They want to believe in an afterlife. They want to believe that they will one day be reunited with their loved ones. They want to believe that the dead can forgive the living. But for all of their efforts to contact the dead, the living in The Tea House adamantly refuse to communicate with each other in a meaningful way.

One lesson that the twins learn about adulthood, then, is that it's easier to wallow in the past than to live in the present. We tell stories both to reconnect with the past and to tame it, to make it palatable. We also construct complicated alibis to make sense of life's big mysteries, to comfort ourselves in the face of overwhelming chaos. We want to be told that everything makes sense. Deep down (or not so deep down) we know that it doesn't, and The Tea House serves as a gentle reminder of a time when we all stood on the edge of adulthood, believing on one hand in the stories that brought order to the confusion and wishing on the other hand that those stories were true.

Overall, The Tea House is an enchanting, engaging read, and Paul Elwork is a sublimely sensitive storyteller with an ear for character and setting. If this novel is a sign of things to come, we can certainly expect to be both charmed and captivated by Elwork in the future.

To read an excerpt of the The Tea House, click here: Excerpt from The Tea House.

Two by Flann O'Brien

When two people who have never met mention an obscure Irish author to a third person in the space of two weeks, the third person, who, in this case, happens to be me, may well have a tendency to become curious about the obscure Irish author and pick up a couple of his books. In this case, the obscure Irish author was Flann O'Brien, and I have Dana Resente and Sheldon Brivic to thank for suggesting him to me, though "thank" may not be the exact word I'm looking for. Perhaps I should simply hold them responsible.

The first work I read by O'Brien was his posthumously published The Third Policeman. Shelly Brivic recommended it, but Dana Resente warned me against it. Clearly, I had no choice but to find out for myself whether or not this was a good read. As it turns out, they were both right. The Third Policeman is definitely not for everyone; the plot is fairly nonsensical and revolves around a dead man's quest to come to terms with his own death (more or less). Throughout the proceedings, O'Brien's whimsical flights of fancy prove alternately ingenious and maddening. On one hand, there's a fairly lengthy (if slightly veiled) meditation on the folly of Keats's "Ode on a Grecian Urn": where Keats would have us believe that unheard melodies are sweeter than their audible counterparts, O'Brien takes the conceit to such ridiculous extremes that the reader has no choice but to believe that the sharpest needle is that which never touches the skin. Then there's the elevator ride to eternity where one can find one's weight in gold but can never take it home. And, of course, there's also the danger of becoming one with one's bicycle. A truly bizarre book, The Third Policeman is part David Lynch, part James Joyce and part Bob Dylan (in a John Wesley Harding/"Ballad of Frankie Lee and Judas Priest" kind of way). Worth a glance if you're into the absurd.

The Poor Mouth is not quite as absurd as The Third Policeman, but it's equally funny. In this one, O'Brien takes aim at all of the tropes (or perhaps "cliches" is a better term) of Irish literature. His Ireland is the land of unhappy children, leaky schools, angry headmasters, and pigs who get mistaken for storytellers. As a satirist par excellence, O'Brien is well aware of the fact that he's dealing in cliches, as evidenced by his narrator's observation that every home in the town of Corkadoragh is populated by "one man, at least, called the Gambler," a worn old man who rises only occasionally from his chimney-corner bed to "tell stories of the bad times," and "a comely lassie named Nuala or Babby or Mabel or Rosie." Yet as much as he pokes fun at the tropes of his native culture, the author never shies away from them. Indeed, he embraces and revels in these old cultural saws, and it's his unembarrassed love for the oft-repeated stories of his youth that drive The Poor Mouth forward and make it an enjoyable read.

There's certainly plenty to be said for Flann O'Brien (whose real name, by the way, was Brian O'Nolan), and I can see why my Irish-scholar friends speak so highly of him. He's funny, smart and crazy. At the same time, though, his more esoteric works like The Third Policeman require a bit of patience, and full appreciation of his more "traditional" works like The Poor Mouth may require a fairly firm grounding in Irish culture. An interesting author, but perhaps an acquired taste.

Available from The Dalkey Archive.

Mouth of the Lion

I never really understood what literary types meant by "gritty" until I read Mouth of the Lion by Lily Richards (Casperian, 2006). Gritty is going along for the ride as James, the novel’s narrator, mixes up a batch of methamphetamine and injects it into his arm. Gritty is watching helplessly while Luka, the narrator’s brother, injects himself repeatedly with the same drug in order to prove that he’s attained godhood. Gritty is feeling your stomach turn each time James’s telephone rings because you know the news won’t be good.

Yet the grit in Mouth of the Lion isn’t just there for its own sake, and Richards doesn’t simply revel in gut-wrenching, meticulous detail for the sheer fun of it. Instead, Mouth of the Lion expertly blends grit with heart, and the novel’s focus on the ties that bind offers a deeply moving and complex investigation of familial love. As James struggles to manage his relationship with Luka, he also comes to realize that he can’t save Luka on his own and that he needs the wider network of his estranged brothers to come to grips with the past that drove the family apart.

Ultimately, Mouth of the Lion is about honestly dealing with the past. Fairly early in the novel, Luka proclaims that we all make our own gods and that we make the gods we deserve. This formulation, however, is perhaps too simplistic, too moralistic. While the novel certainly makes a case for the notion that we all make our own gods, it also interrogates the second half of Luka’s dictum thoroughly. We don’t necessarily make the gods we deserve, this interrogation suggests; rather, we make the gods that circumstances demand. We make the gods that allow us to make sense of the world, to make sense out of chaos. We make the gods that allow us to get by.

Gritty, heartfelt and intelligent, Mouth of the Lion is the first offering from Casperian Books. Other titles in the Casperian catalogue include Paul Elwork’s The Tea House and A.F. Rutzy’s promising End Credits. Definitely a publisher worth a second (and third!) glance.

Visit Casperian Books at Casperianbooks.com.