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Eucalyptus
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Displaying 1 of 1 review
August 29, 2011
I am enamored of Charles Freeland's peculiar body of work. There's an air of erudition prevalent in his prose poems, most evident in Furiant, Not Polka (Moria Books, 2008). His chapbooks available online, Eulalie & Squid (Chippens), Chilean Sea Bass is Really Just Patagonian Toothfish (Differentia Press), and The Case of the Danish King Halfdene (http://www.goodreads.com/review/show/...) read as if he was talking about his own made-up world replete with characters which may or may not be misconstrued as metamorphic, and he does not care whether the reader gets it or not. Most days, I only NOT get it; I am also overwhelmed by his blatant disregard for his readers.
Charles Freeland has this uniquely irreverent voice, and he invents his own textures, hand-paints his own landscapes just to satisfy his craving (or curiosity or whatever it is that he writes for). I do not see any effort to entertain, to convince, or to horrify. And for that, he has my utmost respect and admiration.
Every book is always an experience. But Eucalyptus (a themed book-length prose-poem/flash-fiction collection forthcoming from Otoliths Books) is a different ballgame altogether. It is an immersion, like being indoctrinated into a weird mythology which surprisingly, amidst the chaotic and mostly absurd turn of events, makes sense.
I cannot even summarize it. I tried. I started off by breaking it down chronologically, but there’s no time element, no point of reference. Then I looked at the characters: the narrator, Immanuel (who is lost, in all sense of the word), Eulalie, etc., but I cannot quite flesh them out enough to say anything conclusive. The tragic ending does not make sense to me. Even the title of the book confuses me. There’s only one thing that keeps me reading: Eucalyptus is a strong narrative about loneliness. It tells the story of abandonment, of disenchantment, and it is told in a convoluted fashion which forces everything to shine right through. This is probably what Charles Baudelaire was referring to as "the miracle of poetic prose."
It says with certainty:
“These original stories contained no moral. They simply revolved around a creature so loathsome, it decided finally to drown itself.”
It is invasive:
“For who wants a soul when the protection of it means you can not give pleasure to others? You can not find your way inside them, except with the hands which are clumsy and too public. They lack the intimacy of the hidden.”
I do not pretend to understand Eucalytus. It’s not meant to be deciphered. I’m just here for the long haul, the unforgettable ride, the frequent re-reading.
Charles Freeland has this uniquely irreverent voice, and he invents his own textures, hand-paints his own landscapes just to satisfy his craving (or curiosity or whatever it is that he writes for). I do not see any effort to entertain, to convince, or to horrify. And for that, he has my utmost respect and admiration.
Every book is always an experience. But Eucalyptus (a themed book-length prose-poem/flash-fiction collection forthcoming from Otoliths Books) is a different ballgame altogether. It is an immersion, like being indoctrinated into a weird mythology which surprisingly, amidst the chaotic and mostly absurd turn of events, makes sense.
I cannot even summarize it. I tried. I started off by breaking it down chronologically, but there’s no time element, no point of reference. Then I looked at the characters: the narrator, Immanuel (who is lost, in all sense of the word), Eulalie, etc., but I cannot quite flesh them out enough to say anything conclusive. The tragic ending does not make sense to me. Even the title of the book confuses me. There’s only one thing that keeps me reading: Eucalyptus is a strong narrative about loneliness. It tells the story of abandonment, of disenchantment, and it is told in a convoluted fashion which forces everything to shine right through. This is probably what Charles Baudelaire was referring to as "the miracle of poetic prose."
It says with certainty:
“These original stories contained no moral. They simply revolved around a creature so loathsome, it decided finally to drown itself.”
It is invasive:
“For who wants a soul when the protection of it means you can not give pleasure to others? You can not find your way inside them, except with the hands which are clumsy and too public. They lack the intimacy of the hidden.”
I do not pretend to understand Eucalytus. It’s not meant to be deciphered. I’m just here for the long haul, the unforgettable ride, the frequent re-reading.
Displaying 1 of 1 review