"M. F. Korn - Confessions of a Goul" - читать интересную книгу автора (Korn M F)

Tiresias ... the thinking zombie/ ghoul/ vampire/ librarian/ intellectual/ cosmosist/ shambler ... Tim, the
distorted mirror image protagonist, who falls beneath his own studious shortcomings as projected upon
the blackening screen of the reader's own consciousness: a heavenly light from some submerged
cathedral of the prehensile soul.
 It is difficult not to talk like that in the terms of this novella.

Tiresias (Paul Lipscomb) shuffling like a Great Old One from supermarket to gay party to butcher's
rubble is so utterly believable, believe me. And disturbing, frightening. And uplifting despite the
cannibalistic overtones.

Thank the gawds for MF Korn.

Then young Julia kills Vice.

This novella is utterly incredible, reprehensible, so paradoxically wondrous.

"He carnally savored her hind end."

The novella makes you feel thus: piecemeal: a polkadot critique of a scholarly tour-de-force.

After brainstorming such impressions, it is difficult then to realise the novella is such a compact whole. It
is a story that flows easily and begs you to enter and become participant, despite the drawbacks of
acknowledging some of the emotions involved. It is organic. It is a simple tale of someone (Tim or
Tiresias?) striving to sell the ultimate artwork, of both pulpish and deeply philosophical worth.

Let me say, it sells itself. It attracts and repels at once. There is love, too.

It is a piano concerto with gnawed human bones for keys.



Eternal Questions Posed At the International House of Pancakes

The questions could only be answered at wee hours at a place where bohemian students drank
inordinate pots of coffee at 80 cents a night.

Mark made it part of his life, staying up all nights, as he did for the last two of his nine years of college.
He was a history major who fawned over eccentric professors because of a fascination with details in the
affairs of Mankind.

The IHOP near the campus was filled with English majors, philosophy majors, amateur sophists, general
beatniks all drinking coffee. The all night chess players could suck back their share of it, too. This
consisted of New Orleans Chicory or Community Dark Roast. It wasn't too watery like McDonald's
offering, not muddy like Marine Corps or gas station swill. A pristine brewed, infallible mixture upon
which to stoke himself from eleven pm to six am. This left Mark with a schizoaffective mind by at least
3:30.

He avoided the junkie darlings making their way out of the night club dungeons, each filled with nickel
beer. He only sought out loons and conspiracy flakes. Any fundamentalist preacher, any fatalist would do