THE ASPEN WRETCH by Daphne Gem Host
“, eyes ticking like clockwork in the sterile glow that scrolled down my face.”
Hi! from on high.
A miraculously prose-poetic act of relationship with every part of one’s body and gender, every age from birth to death, through, say, surgeons working on you or some form of spiritual reverse-ventriloquism of the vocal cords in tune with this journal, plus self-perception, and synaesthetic perception of others outwards — and comparison with animals, say, a snake or yellow perch that I call a tench. A mutual flensing. An epiphany of words. Too much to quote as quotable quotes to last a life time, so as to do full justice to it. Amazingly or preternaturally meant to be, it also resonates with a story I read only yesterday: ‘The Sorting Out’ by Christopher Priest, both stories with an explicit reference to Donne, there the ordered disrobing of his mistress, now seen here in the Host more as a cathartic methodical delving of ones metaphorical fingers into self as each divestment is made.
The detailed review of this book posted elsewhere under my name is too long or impractical to post here.
Above is one of its observations at the time of the review.