Nine months after his wife’s death, a man is abducted from his house by a band of violent thieves and taken to a nightmarish city called Weatherhead. There he falls under the dark attentions of the cruel, despotic ruler of the city: the wife he thought dead.
This a love story between a person still living and a person still dead. It is also a hate story between the same, a violent story populated with all manner of ruffians, crimes, running street battles between Love and Hate (a particularly nasty bunch who hang out at soda fountains and dress terribly) and knife-fights between mourning and evening spouses. It is a story of how we remember those who are lost, and how we rebuild those who shattered in life. If life is a place in which we die, what does that make death?
A representative review:
To paraphrase Cixous, reading this novel is like walking on a dizzying silence reading one word after another on emptiness. She actually said that about the writing process itself but here it applies to this strange, savage landscape that Hushour has brought to life. Amongst the phantasmagoria and humor there is an unease, the feeling that the ground will give way beneath you or that you will fall into the maw of the sky. The author has a Kubrickian claustrophobia and his love of mazes as well, not only borne out by the topography of Weatherhead itself but in the labyrinth’s of his character’s souls. This is a big work that invites you to live in it a while, to try on its weird garments and act differently in the face of the world’s chaos
Remember when you were just outside Barstow in Bat Country? Remember when you suckled on Mugwump jism in Tangiers or peeled the layers of Calvino’s Venice? Remember getting caught in the geometry of Pynchon or the poetry and meditation of Lispector? Remember discovering the gentle melancholy of Georges Perec? Remember Weatherhead. Relish the terror of existence.
To quote Cixous more directly, “I learned infinity limits love. One must never stop giving it limits to devour.”
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