7 thoughts on “The Dissolution of Small Worlds – Kurt Fawver


    “I’ve just broken open a jar of ambiguity and you should be scuttling from piece to piece, sucking the information dry from every word, every turn of phrase.”

    I have a shocking sense of paranoia, as this overwhelmingly powerful story seems, in every unmistakeable way, to be aimed sneeringly at the Gestalt Real-Time Reviewer as the Dreamcatcher or Hawler…. A sort of Messiah story, though …. so it can’t be me, surely, as the monster Messiah, as Yeats’ Second Coming, a baby born sired by Angels from a heroin addicted teenage girl, an unshaped baby that morphs further and sucks in the whole story (and thus the world that this story contains) from its base in the Maternity Hospital. A myth, not a story, as it says. Sucks me in, too, as a form of itself? Or sucks in any ordinary reader, as part of triangulating its own coordinates? In many ways, I hope the latter is indeed the case. That would mean it wasn’t just me. But I “tried to find connections […] tried to find meaningful aberrations.” And, paradoxically, that is leading to my undoing, I dread to say. And, so, I have no option but to begin genuinely to believe that this work is, after all, neither story nor myth but something literally aimed at my undoing. I am the Hawling infant. “You’re the Rawling infant.”

  2. Pingback: “You’re the Rawling Infant.” | DES LEWIS GESTALT REAL-TIME REVIEWS


    “So numerous are these incidents that each of us tends to weave his or her own unique patchwork myth where the White Books are concerned.”

    A coded series of head-subjected sections, by a narrator cursed with omniscience but a curse craftily concealed under the first person plural of “We are the stories we tell.” We are all cursed. We can see ourselves in this quilt, as I did earlier above. I who once published a blank story. The world’s first? Like a Brexit White Paper?
    An intriguing sort of SF version of a Borges Library or a HOUSEofLeaves, or a place like death whence we never return to tell others what it is like. Full of methods and means of exploring, as history’s recurrent pioneers, boldly going into this eponymous section of the library. A section we are told we can only enter as a part of that first person plural, two of us as a minimum. However, at the end, we reach even the extent of keeping the door open to this section of the library after just one entrant makes a foolhardy foray, then exploring his last spoken sentence from inside as a form of Philosophical Linguistics, possibly prophesying today’s ‘would’ changed to ‘wouldn’t’, or vice versa? “It would not be inaccurate to conclude that we enjoy regaling newcomers with our tales of terror and menace.” Not my bold.
    A story that continues to involve us, somehow anticipating the rest of the potential dangerous adventures into this book’s own special collection yet to be undertaken.

  4. I read and reviewed the next story here: https://dflewisreviews.wordpress.com/2016/11/03/nightscript-ii/#comment-8472 and below is what I wrote about it in that context:



    “‘Today is a day when things might get better, when things might change. There’s energy in the air.’
    But the starlings didn’t sing today.”

    A compelling narrative from an old man, looking forward today to being taken out for his granddaughter’s birthday, an old man not unrelated perhaps to the old men in the previous Tem and White, here in a convincing Care Home residence situation (I am familiar with such residences), some of the residents suffering from Alzheimers…
    I will not describe the exact situation that accretes here around him, as it would spoil the haunting quality of what actually happens, but it is skilfully conveyed with many striking turns of phrase.
    A mysterious calling, humming as anti-music, a mysterious silence and attenuation outside the Home…sunlight turning grey or white, and a black that is not a colour at all.
    You will not forget this story. Nor this story’s special ‘today’ today.
    “The plot included ghosts and a talking dog and the president of the United States…”


    “It appeared that I was inextricably trapped in my own curiosity.”

    Trapped in my own head, I am forced by this stylishly frightening story to follow a woman writer about Halloween traditions, when she visits for this purpose Marrowvale hamlet, the direst of the Ligottian ‘butthole’ communities of America, where tricksy hands offer fake treats, and the Halloween headpieces for the hamlet’s “triangulated people” are utterly outlandish as a dark gallery of over-tiny mouths and Lovecraftian geometry….

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