Aaron Schmid’s Reviews > A Bended Circuity > Status Update

I think Stickley is doing something weird with the frame. Never trust an omniscient narrator who points out their own omniscience I guess? I can't tell yet, but maybe this is a report of a story gathered from someone under hypnosis? It would explain a lot of the psycho-sexual Freudian stuff and the overblown dreamlike characteristics of many sections. I'm not sure if that helps or hurts the story, but it's something.

That was probably the best section of the book so far. But a huge shift has finally happened and, although there are more bad sermons, I can at least see the light at the end of the tunnel - less than 100 pages left in this edition. I feel like we're running out of pages too quickly though. There's still quite a bit I expect to see. Obviously, I need the ending, and to think about it, but I don't know how to rate it.

All the characters kinda suck. Gaburdine is okay, but all she thinks about is Bradley and her sections are very short, respectively. The setting isn't really cohesive either, as I just can't imagine a southern uprising of this scale, during the Vietnam-era's social resistance, where "the north" is completely unresponsive. Also, Maxim's detachment devalues the "war" and his philosophising is just as bad as Bradley's.

Maybe I'm reading this at the wrong hour - or maybe it's because the book is often a bad sermon, in multiple ways at once - but there are sections that put me right to sleep. It goes on and on quite a bit. It's funny and clever at times, and it makes me want to read more from the author, just to see how he is outside of this southern context. But it's a slow read. I think Stickley is probably very smart. That's fine.

I think this is the first time I've ever read a story that seems so mythological about America's south. The bit with the tar-baby felt like I was reading about a leprechaun or a cryptid. The parts about Russia and the Mexicans seem just as colorful and imaginatively outlandish. I often feel the urge to read this out loud because the language is so thick with southern accents, but man, do those southern boys drawl on.

This book is Southern, in that its language is abundantly loquacious. Read it in a Foghorn Leghorn/Bonoit Blanc voice, a molasses drawl, it feels absolutely appropriate. Stickley seems simply virtuosic, definitely maximalist (to say it could be shorter is an understatement) but the pacing fluctuates quite a bit. Sometimes it's very fast reading. Mostly not. I like when his wit bends into comedy, but it feels angry.