|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|||||||||
The Moon was out. Death wore an old hat and had long fingerbones. Death was an old French woman, an ascetic, an emperor, a strong breeze, an old tree, maybe less. Everyone else lived and loved, laughed and bled. Death wondered why he hadn't been George. Death left his hat. Always.
Death is a collection of interrelated shorts divided into four distinct sections, each taking the reader through a unique component of Death’s “existence.” Naturally, the personification of Death has precedence in centuries of folk tradition, artistic work, and pop-culture artifacts, most of which endeavor to reduce an essentially incomprehensible phenomenon to a limited, relatable, perhaps even likeable, figure. Death is definitely not in keeping with this rationale. Death as presented in this work is by turns violent, pathetic, and miserable, and many of the scenarios that surround the titular persona are as cryptic and jarring as the language that frames them. If there can be said to be any “point” about Death that informs this collection, it is precisely that death is point-less: death is wonderful, death is tragic, death is mysterious . . . subjectively all of these things, and so objectively nothing at all, Death remains positioned just outside the scope of complete comprehension, putting the tips of his Fingerbones together, laughing a hollow Laugh, and tipping his old Hat to those who would attempt to understand the intricacies of a greater design whose machinations elude him most of all.
Currently serializing on Facebook:
"Lovely, deep, and original. Death seems to be wearing the kind of hat that cowboys wore in strange cosmic Brazilian cowboy movies made in the 1970s." — Christine Parkhurst
Death is a collection of interrelated shorts divided into four distinct sections, each taking the reader through a unique component of Death’s “existence.” Naturally, the personification of Death has precedence in centuries of folk tradition, artistic work, and pop-culture artifacts, most of which endeavor to reduce an essentially incomprehensible phenomenon to a limited, relatable, perhaps even likeable, figure. Death is definitely not in keeping with this rationale. Death as presented in this work is by turns violent, pathetic, and miserable, and many of the scenarios that surround the titular persona are as cryptic and jarring as the language that frames them. If there can be said to be any “point” about Death that informs this collection, it is precisely that death is point-less: death is wonderful, death is tragic, death is mysterious . . . subjectively all of these things, and so objectively nothing at all, Death remains positioned just outside the scope of complete comprehension, putting the tips of his Fingerbones together, laughing a hollow Laugh, and tipping his old Hat to those who would attempt to understand the intricacies of a greater design whose machinations elude him most of all.
Currently serializing on Facebook:
"Lovely, deep, and original. Death seems to be wearing the kind of hat that cowboys wore in strange cosmic Brazilian cowboy movies made in the 1970s." — Christine Parkhurst
