by author of THE LEGEND OF JIMMY GOLLIHUE

Surging with the hot, sensual blood-pressure of another incisive stab of punditry, Jonathan moved toward the washing machine (a brand-new Spellmaster from the United States, complete with a voltage converter that enabled it to run on the British-flavoured 220V, always smoother and more refined than the American counterpart, thought Jonathan), lifted the lid, and peered inside.

Wrapped round the inner drum of the American machine (which Jonathan had long preferred over the more commonly-available front-loading machines, which he'd always found had forced him to hunker painfully thus stretching his knees, or to kneel as he would before a literary lion, or to sit in a half-lotus position in front of the machine as though about to stack his notes in chapter piles, as he had been wont to do previous to the advent of the modern word processor,which enabled Jonathan to carry an entire office around with him in the form of a notebook computer, so convenient he could prance confidently into the Waterstone's bookshop cafe, his full writerly arsenal just a few keystrokes away) was the waterlogged carcass of a nude man.

The face stared up at Jonathan from the drum of the top-loading washer, but the staring face was unseeing though full of accusation (and what a strange miracle that the man's old-fashioned mustache wax has perfectly preserved the delicate, manly handlebar curves of his masculine mustachio! gushed Jonathan within, as he wondered where he'd left the oil for the chainsaw (both of which, chainsaw and oil, he'd had to order special from a lumberjack's journal, to which he subscribed).

from THE BANSHEE'S MESSENGER BOY

The heavy lorry trundled north on the Link Road to Kells . The driver of the lorry was dressed in gaudy showman’s clothes: a bright green wool jacket, a black pinstriped waistcoat of cheap shiny silk with a great looping silver watch chain dangling from it. He wore no hat or cap and he had an unlit cigar jammed in his jaws.
Painted on the sides of the lorry like great garish rolling banners were circus images in five or six bright colors. There were clowns both happy and sad, lions, fat ladies, acrobats all frolicking round three stylized rings. On the rear of the lorry was stenciled St Brigid Brothers Circus Show.
“If you are stopped by the Gardai,” the red-headed witch had said, “simply tell them you’re the circus bound for the Fun Fair, you can’t tarry for you’re late setting up the tents. Then pull out your money roll like a boss barker and slip him a hundred pounds.”
The driver had a roll of money in his trouser pocket, and inside his jacket he carried not a pistol, and thus one possible means of escape, but a radio device with a single large black button. Hidden under his crotch was a live fragmentation grenade, as a failsafe. In no case, the red-headed witch had said, will you be going to the Gardai, nor to MI5, but rather straight to your Maker with no middlemen to quibble over the flesh and bones that cover your soul. If it makes it easier for you, the witch had said, think of your wife and daughters in that Londonderry basement, and what my men will do to them if you fail us.
Oh, sure I’ll not fail you, Miss, thought the driver, who fought to keep control of himself, fought to stay conscious with the blood pressure splitting his head open, struggled to keep the screams inside. “But I will see you in Hell, you bitch,” he muttered.
Kells town came into view. All he could think of was the Unfinished Cross, and how Maire had tried to corral the girls as they’d dashed screaming and happy in their summer frocks, back and forth between the broken cross and the Round Tower, and how proud he’d been that day to be a man under an Irish sky.

Ciaran’s legend was airtight and so he had no trouble entering the country at Dun Laoghaire. In fact all he got for his modicum of worry was a passing glance at his British passport (doctored special in London, along with the rest of his funny papers) and a nod from the Customs Inspector: just another merchant seaman from Liverpool. And Ciaran had the accent to prove it, had he been required to open his mouth and speak.
Ten minutes later he stood on the walk before the Town Hall. His sea bag thrown over one shoulder, Ciaran removed his his cap and let the sun touch his face.
A young garda approached him.
“Ní hé lá na gaoithe lá na scolb,” said the garda.
Ciaran was careful not to twitch the hand that held the cap, for it would be a dead giveaway that he understood the young garda’s words as a windy day is not the day to be fixing your thatch.
“Sorry, officer, I don’t speak the Irish,” said Ciaran, and he pulled a long face. “I was trying to recall the way to the Merchant Seaman’s Rest.” It was a code, one he’d been instructed to use upon first contact with any man on the street.
The garda stared at him with a blank face.
“Between Kelly’s and Crofton, and if you’re at George’s you’ve wandered too far.”
Then the garda nodded to him, looked him up and down in case anyone was watching, and strode off along his beat.
Ciaran placed his watch cap back upon his head. Still his hair stuck out around the edges, and blew in the breeze of late afternoon. No day indeed to be after fixing the thatches, he thought. He set off in the general direction of the streets the garda had named, but it had been a code: his contact would be a man named George Croft.
He strode briskly until he was hidden between the dark buildings of the harbor city.

NYT Reader Response

December 23, 2008 7:31 am

Link

The World Health Organization gives a median estimate of approximately 151,000 deaths for Iraqi civilians since the beginning of the current Iraq campaign. Other estimates range from 47,000 to 1.3 million. Over 4100 members of the U.S. Armed Forces have died in the war.

It is regrettable, to say the least, that Vice President Cheney is still in a position of authority. America is not supposed to be controlled by shadow governments, or cabals within government, nor is it meant to be brainwashed by Pentagon influence of television media news. In short, the profit motive behind war must not, in any way, seduce those in American government and make the waging of war a reality. And by the waging of war I refer not only to the campaign of horror and destruction wrought upon the Muslim world, but the program of psychological terrorism perpetrated against the American people by its own government.

Unfortunately, the United States of America saw all of these tragedies unfold, and quite frankly, we were too scared to do anything about it.

I would be interested in reading an interview with Dick Cheney (and ones featuring George Bush and Karl Rove, as well), but not an exit interview. I'd like to read an interview conducted through a thick glass partition in a maximum security prison, where Mr. Cheney laments his fate as he faces charges at the Hague ranging from genocide, human rights violations and war crimes to manipulation of world markets.

But that's the stuff of fantasy fiction.

Instead, Dick Cheney will ink a fat seven-figure book deal, and will profit handsomely in the private sector. Someone with his connections will make a killing in the war industry... even out of office.

Shame, Mr. Cheney, and may your arrogance be matched with a long lifetime of insomnia, guilt and fear. May history scourge your name with a black mark of ignominy.

opening poem LEGEND OF JIMMY GOLLIHUE

Three miles further down the road
Lie men with sticks
Their hearts black with gold.

Seven steps leftward off the path
A gator, an emerald
A bloodhound of wrath.

Five miles higher up that hill
Are onyx, amethyst
And blacker colors that kill.

Nine steps forward along the road
His lover the Angel
Her eyes green and gold.

One step backwards off the trail:
Black grass red and slick
A green monster from Hell.

Writer: Publish Thyself!

The Legend

of

Jimmy Gollihue

I decided to go ahead and self-publish a limited edition of my novel. First, I'm going to do it the old-fashioned way: a commercial printer. Should I shoot myself in the foot and hobble my first novel with the stigma of self-publishing? Should I give it away for free on the web, bit by bit, like a stack of virtual chapter books? Should I self-market with bookmarks, T-shirts, impromptu book signings & interviews? Coffee mugs and matchbooks?

Yes.

Not only do I plan to put up the cash up front for the whole print run (a short-run of 100), and then put up the cash for all the marketing ideas I have brewing (T-shirts ain't that expensive when bought in bulk), and expose myself to scorn by deliberately earning notoreity (media stunts I won't detail at this time)... not only all of that and much more, but I'm going to give the book away for free, once I have it in my hot little hands!

Here's hoping someone notices this maniac writer, who produces his own book to high standards (despite its sometimes-shocking content), markets it, and then gives it away like Christmas presents.

more 2666

Still reading 2666, now up to p 350 or so. Still very impressive in terms of structure, juxtaposition of imagery, prose quality (yes, I know it's a translation, but it doesn't read like one). And very weird... and I'm only a third of the way through!

RIP David Foster Wallace

If I can't get my novel published I'm going to serialize it on the Internet, and publicize the event. I'm thinking media stunt.

Next: THE LEGEND OF JIMMY GOLLIHUE

2666

I have the ARC of 2666, and I'm up to page 75 or so. Those of you who are reading this (almost no one) and who've read Bolano (sorry for the lack of tilde) know what a big thing this is. Probably there are a couple hundred folks out there who've finished 2666 in English.

So far: BRILLIANT

And when they said Uncorrected Proof they weren't kidding.