Give the gift of monsters for Christmas: The Beast That Was Max, on Kindle, at Crossroad Press in multiple formats amazon/Beast-That-Resurrection-Cycle-Book-ebook/dp/B004OYUFNA/ref=sr_1_3?ie=UTF8&qid=1419111177&sr=8-3&keywords=houarner One of the definitions of genius is the ability to hold two contradictory opinions as equally valid. Its also one of the definitions of madness. So what would you make of a book that holds many diverse and divergent viewpoints as being true, instead of canceling each other out into oblivion? Super genius? Criminal insanity? Both? Me, I opt for Door #3 when it comes to The Beast That Was Max, by Gerard Houarner. Perverse spirituality, sublime pain, malignant heroism, male pregnancy - These are just some of the many concerns that course through this volumes blood. Structurally its just as engaging, an experiment of sorts, a pair of novellas that bracket three interrelated stories featuring a basic cast that alternate with other folks. Puzzling, intense and liberating of sorts, this narrative beast roams lyrically free, while what Houarner riffs is just as wild. The horror here is at once in your face yet hallucinatory, while the plot(s) veer wildly, the center holding, but just barely, which is a very strange plus. Characterization is grounded in tropes of traits, yet there is true substance to the personnel as well. This is a tough trick to pull off, and Houarner leaves all trickery in the dust. Images collide with the unnerving power of a bad acid trip. Inimical cosmic forces vie with hired killers wetwork, yet the chasm between the two is never filled, just fleshed out to no more than muscle, nerve and viscera caged by bone, as most mysteries here are never fully revealed, let alone resolved. Houarner doesnt allow you to fill in the gaps yourself; he hasnt given you enough, just wisps and hints. It shouldnt work, it wouldnt in lesser hands, but here it is noteworthy to a fault, pitch perfect and pitch black, the pitchblende giving off the hardest radiation around. Part 1, To Dance Like Mist in Moonlight, the only portion published for the first time, is a single long chunk of prose that scrolls over 150 pages with nary a chapter break in sight, so prepare yourself for a terrifying ride here. Curtain up on Max, clandestine government gun. He thinks hes going to plug someone, but soon learns that hes riding shotgun on a baby-sitting gig, something hes never done before. Houarner ramps up the paranoia here in prose that is not particularly hardboiled, but still clipped. All the while, The Beast rages inside him. The Beast? Yep. Its a demonic force that makes Max a proficient assassin-and something far worse as well. Though not convoluted, there are still weird turns to the plot that smack of pure nightmare, with expectations morphing into the next set piece. Now, the memorable set piece is a prerequisite in any good novel, and Houarner delivers plenty. A sick one early on that I still cant shake deals with abuse of a corpse, told in a matter of fact, oddly poetic tone that is very hands on - and also bleakly comedic. This stuff wont put a smile on your face, but rather a rictus.Moving on through Parts 2 and 3, The Beast That Was Max and Truth and Consequences in the Heart of Destruction are on par with Part 1, making the total text a tour de force. Through the odyssey thats Part 2, Maxs charges, the twins Alioune and Kueur, are wise in the ways of pain and pleasure, and Max becomes more than just their father figure. Later he makes a trip to a funky little place by the name of Painfreak that got the whole Max saga rolling some years back, and the big fun really gets going. Soon the twins real papa appears, a god who is a trickster. Yet Max is not above playing a practical joke himself, albeit a very sick one. Still, it gets done what needs to be done. Part 3 is an adventure that basically takes place on one set, thus the theatricality is dramatic, though never stagy. Here, Max becomes something of a biological anomaly. Houarners achievement is attained with maximum effect and minimum filigree. The prose is pared to the bone, even when its blowing up in your face. There is a narrative distance here that draws the reader closer the further away the author moves from the telling. A thriller masquerading as a horror novel finally blossoms into a work that is up to the minute, yet its radical tendencies look backward. A good number of critics have compared Houarner to various authors. Of course, he is his own man, yet he comes across as the male yang to the female yin of Charlee Jacob, another Leisure author who is about Houarners age. And the age factor is most telling. Houarner is of the generation that found hippies throwing their duds away to become punks. Hes around 50, and so the connection here is to New Wave science fiction that was published in New Worlds in the late Sixties. Theres a spice of Harlan Ellison, too, though Houarners voice is hardly manic. The control, calm weirdness and amorality segue back to the granddaddy of them all, Naked Lunch by Williams Burroughs. Another telling bit is that the work was written out of chronological sequence. Amidst this novels heavy breathing is an open-eyed wonderment that cadges imagery from nightmare and hits you in the face with it, though its more love tap than full frontal assault. This is Houarners greatest gift, the ability to keep the lid on while the cooking gets almost unbearable. Plus the ingredients are offered in a shotgun approach that finds every pellet ripping your brain apart to gray matter goo. The Beast That Was Max is not for everyone, though for those who read this cult masterpiece once, theyre certain to reread it (more than once). Its visual quality is filled with shadows cast by monstrous beings storming out from the authors ID. That Houarners got a leash on them is nothing short of amazing. R B Straus, Avon Grove Press
Posted on: Sat, 20 Dec 2014 23:24:20 +0000
Trending Topics
Recently Viewed Topics
© 2015