In a strange, sometimes unrecognizable Europe, VII is the fictional autobiography in seven parts of a playwright whose life might or might not be influenced by his own plays, an account that seems to reshape the world around him as it is written. A decadent libertine in a macabre city, our protagonist chronicles a history of sordid affairs mingled with impossible journeys, steeped in a pathology of vice, terror, and lies. The result is a novel both troubled and complex, a striking insight into a mind whose darkness is all too human
I found this book dark and twisted, and I mean that in the best possible way. The text itself is secretive and wily and I doubt that a single reading will yield up all of its secrets. But, for the intrepid explorer, much awaits. It is complex and fascinating, surreal at the same time that it is visceral. I don't think I could summarize it easily, but I did enjoy reading it quite a bit. In any event, it is an extremely impressive piece of writing.
"Reason has no grasp here," is as good a token as any to be found in these pages. VII's ars poetica comes on page CXVI: "I had...begun to suspect that travel took place according to movement within myself, rather than any spatial factor." For though there is spatial movement, action, interaction -- scene -- all of it can contract in a sentence and leave us wondering whether what we've read is: "I must insist that this account is not fabricated, but merely very flawed." Serial selves? Hallucinations? Li(v)es? "My life, work, and these pages are nothing but myself, past and future." I think maybe our subject is words. Is "Edward William Locke" (alternately "Edward Henry Williams") anything more? When time and story have reduced his body to decayed tissue, his story still goes on. And when it reaches the reader's eye, he lives again.