Jeremiah Webster has created something here that only a true master of the English language can. Something brilliantly new and brave that also conjures the resounding echoes of Dante and Lewis’s wisdom and the zeal of Donne (and W.S. Burroughs may have crudely crashed the party before being ejected—but not forgotten). Our author has met them through study, and I have a sneaking suspicion they’ve spoken with him directly. They’ve shared their ideas with him. And they’ve leapt in the afterlife after reading what their modern, living contemporary has done here, how he has expanded the idea of what Hell is—or could be—now that humanity has been eaten alive by the isolation of technological wonder.
Our imaginations are no longer safe. And as we follow a disillusioned Joe Muggeridge through the modern-Hell—vast neon landscapes devoid of hope, abacus puzzles lined with condemned human souls like some sort of bizarre carnival game, a librarian with an eternally unforgiving workload—we both see and feel Joe fight against his own humanity while questioning what we, the reader, think we know about hell—and consequently what we know about Heaven. Can we think of one without also thinking of the other? I mean, c’mon, even Morte Magari does. Why does this book cause me to question my own imagination? Why, by the end, have I traversed every stage of grief when I’ve nothing to grieve over? And why do I sorta-kinda-at-times relate to the demon antagonist? After all, I’m housetrained, Morte Magari is not. That said, I can’t count how many times I willed cell coverage to Joe just so he would have something to distract him. What does that say about me?
The language here is free and endued with wit, but every nuanced sentence and phrase is careful, which is what happens when a poet writes prose. Yet there’s just enough of a case-study feel to it (thanks to the endnotes) to remind me that no ordinary person wrote this. Rather, the writer has waded through a lifetime of seeking understanding about something that can’t be understood without a measure of Godly faith. As such, for me, this embodies the jubilation that comes when a collection of ponderances have accumulated over time and finally coalesce into something perfectly cohesive. What I’m trying to say is that this book somehow manages to combine multiple approaches that speak to my own rational/emotional duality that is truly heightened in the world of academia and appreciated as a deep reader.
To use present day textspeak, though: YMMV, but WTF.
What we’ve got here is something that doesn’t happen enough: a book that combines the complexity of classical literature, the simplicity of Modernism, and the (at times) Naked Lunch-esque taste of Post-Modernism, while also embracing today’s drive to challenge our own worldview.
Read it.