Des Lewis will be 77 years old on 18 January 2025
Those who have read these episodic brainstorming reviews of mine must know they are very personal — rough-shod and spontaneous. Synchronicity and anagram mixed. I know they are not professional, never potentially publishable other than in the madness of my head, but I do hope they show grains of dark truth and cosmic panache.
These Des Lewis Gestalt Real-Time Reviews were founded in 2008.
‘What’s the loveliest word in the English language, officer? In the sound it makes in your mouth, in the shape it makes on the page? What do you think? Well now, I’ll tell you: E-L-B-O-W. Elbow.’ — THE SINGING DETECTIVE
“How shall a man find his way unless he lose it?” — Walter de la Mare
To any current genre author I have reviewed before — if you have a new story recently published or soon to be published in a collection or anthology, you may have a review by me of the story that also showcases where it is published. See HERE. (This is because I am no longer well enough to review as many books as I once did.)
Fresh Fictions, free to read HERE.
No AI input in preparation of my texts whatsoever.
THE NEW NONSCENIC
Photos here: https://conezero.wordpress.com/2024/02/24/d-f-lewis-recent-photos-1/
I see that I need to wait till September before real-time reviewing this book!
I have just realised that the dates of this book’s September do not match the days’ names themselves for September 2016 when I had set myself the pleasurable or anguished task of reading and reviewing this diary poem in a real-time day by day process. So I started reading it today and couldn’t put it down.
In one fell sitting. The poem flows sweetly in enjambement about some less sweet existential and writerly and personal matters in South-Eastish London, but sweet, too. I had honest pangs that I was tapping this book, to extend my life, perhaps forever. You heard it here first. My dreamcatching reviews are a sort of vampiric supping of synchronicities and serendipities, the shards of random truth and fiction, untying the Ligottian knot, and this book has fed me more years than many others that I have similarly dreamcaught. It is life seen through tea-stained net curtains. It is this. It is that. It is easy to digest, but will I find it eventually difficult to expel? Death, too. And I hope the author or publisher does not mind me quoting one whole stanza out of many stanzas…
“Literature’s function
Is twofold. First to keep from
Dying. Second, to
Learn to die. Whatever I
Write, I won’t keep from dying.”
But that last bit does not apply to whatever I READ, I’d suggest, having now seen a sudden Erithian gap in the curtain.