La poésie a besoin de tester ses barres de résistance : bob, en joker minuscule, est envoyé sur le terrain. Spécialiste de la 'mission serrée horizontale', il investit un champ d'action résolument virtuel, enfonce des portes, explore des couloirs-cibles, déplace des panneaux coulissants. Dopé d'énergie pure, il s'agite à tout instant, fait feu à volonté sur du décor répétitif, débrouille son monde. En bref, il active les manettes de la création dans la version hasardeuse des points de vie non renouvelables.
Anne Portugal strings words and phrases together that make no sense, and I spent the entire book trying to figure out what exactly bob is supposed to be. That being said, I was definitely entertained, albeit confused.
This one will give you whip lash it's so fast and engaging. I can't say I know if it's about anything except the act of doing things and having them done. Images captured, buildings erected, reprieves granted, disasters ensued and and and "Bob;" a sort of person or a singularity maybe. What floored me about the book was how fluid the thinking was, jumping from one register to another, stacking completely disparate images so beautifully I was amazed. I kept thinking.. "how the hell did she write this?" because Portugal keeps stride with the chaos and sort of whispers back to it. It was stunning and perplexing. Everyone should read this!
Mildly interesting, but I was bored pretty fast. Not sure if it was the language or the conceit, but I certainly expected more out of the language in order to carry the conceit through a exhausting 119 pages. The abstraction of language was relentless, and without the rhythmic pulse of skeleton of sounds to shape it, became tedious and dreary. Redundant rather than repetitive. Certainly an interesting intellectual exercise, but not particularly engaging, and more run of the mill than experimental.