Friday, October 16, 2009

Blake Butler's Scorch Atlas

So, I've started into Blake Butler's Scorch Atlas and it's like biting into a burning apple. A sizzling cherry. Each taste's a piece of fire that whirrs on the tongue and surrounds the brain in a live-dead sack of cold-burning aura.

This book's going on my night stand next to Finnegan's Wake and for the same purpose. To be taken down some afternoons for small doses of brain buzz-disfigurement.

Blake Butler's an original. Big. Teeming. Burning.

(note: I've got a small tolerance. Easily blown apart. Thus, small doses.)


Scorch Atlas is a beautiful book that speaks to on many levels and through many tongue. One tongue says don't write in me. Keep me sacred. Another says desecrate me. Destroy me. Scribble all over me. And this I am doing. The only book I haven't written is in the bible my dad got for his bar mitzvah and which he, in turn, (having never even opened it) passed on to me the day I supposedly became a man. Damnit how I'm itching to write in that gold-leafed beautiful book. Soon. Soon. Soon.)


What I've read so far of Scorch Atlas (through about page 45) depends on and is made by speed. The speed at which the language and action move is really thrilling. A joy.

But then every now and then it slows. Sketches. Lingers.

And everything narrows down into one moment blooming.

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