7 thoughts on “Raphus Press

  1. I will describe the first book after slowly passing through it…

    translated into English from ‘Sevastopol’, Count Lyon F. Tolstoy

    In among the amputations and other treatments by medics of Sevastopol’s defenders in apparent preparation for our entering the Bastion…


    “He had always been aware of certain deficiencies within his nature, as if he’d somehow been assigned the wrong station in life and was unable to perform the tasks entrusted to him.”

    Of course, Ghislaine, the ostensible man in this work who(m) the protagonist perhaps becomes, is also the unusual name of a mentoring woman in the recent headlines of international news (most probably before this work was written) concerning a Duke or Prince who has never been master of his own inherited portfolio of status. Here he is tempted by Ghislaine into behind the doors of this building that contains its own citadel or bastion, a twerp in Antwerp, as it were, but also echoing the fighting battles hinted at by the Tolstoy within this highly enticing Damian-infused audit trail of occult presentations, exhibits and visions. One of which is a Cage of silence played on an old record-player. An audit trail without grooves…
    “…yet the feeling imparted by the images that surrounded him was as erotic as it was savage. […]
    Men and women swarmed right over one another […] as if engaged in some ferocious dance.”

    My previous reviews of the author Damian Murphy: https://dflewisreviews.wordpress.com/tag/damian-murphy/


    “By not dwelling on the repulsive enormity of the cleaning task, he could fix details, loose fragments…”

    Whether bastion, citadel, fortress or casemate, this is boy Ivan’s redoubt. As if further blending Sebastopol with a Cage of Silence, the history-contexted task of clearing the corpses creates almost an occult power in Ivan, until he himself reaches , as we all do, our hoped-for “night of sleep”. Only today did I finally clock that ‘vault’ is both a dark oubliette and a leap forward. My own son’s name is Ivan.

    My previous reviews of the author Alecebiades Diniz Miguel: https://dflewisreviews.wordpress.com/tag/alcebiades-diniz-miguel/

    The English text of this sometimes black-leafed book ends on page 24 but then followed by further pages numbered by Roman numerals containing what I presume to be Portuguese translations of the foregoing works as reviewed above. There are a small number of other oddments of design, decoration and text to round it off as gestalt. In your own time.

  4. WASTELANDS by Alcebiades Diniz Miguel

    The second book (to be described later) starts with…


    “…one of my dreams as a young man — in school, in college — was to adulterate, to defile all available books, turning my pages into indistinguishable ink blots.”

    …Ink blots on text, not on a book’s images, engravings etc. 13058D66-7E78-4249-BBB4-AB052DCD5686 A powerful story of a man whose wife – a gardener – died five years before, and her memory as person or doer forms associative images or dreams with his current life today. Involving a pervading scent, description of various engravings, and human seeds. To find the true elephant in its room, you will need to read it before anyone has the chance to redact anything in it, I guess. “But even in these two days of tranquility, sometimes the smell resurfaced inadvertently, frighteningly…” Cf the Tranquility Mortality Services here about half an hour ago.


    “The heat and humidity of that land conspired to make the vegetation less a paradise and much more a grinding machine, designed to crush the flesh of animals so that they would become nutrients for the dense, infinite verdure.”

    An expedition to South American jungle by one caught up with the racial ‘engineering’ of the German Nazis and a most telling description of what he found there. In a relative short space, it is teeming with philosophical implications and living rot. A sort of gestalt overseeing body count Frankenstein. With a throwaway ending situated on the Brazilian-Venezuelan border that makes one hold one’s breath as everything pans out today and as we work and play, eyes wide shut. Coincidentally, as I started to read this work, I was already listening to a recording of last night’s Late Junction from BBC Radio 3 featuring Venezuelan music. More human seeds and elephants in rooms, I guess.


    Hindered or arguably helped by inconsistent en-dashes and some dislocations of syntax in this piece, we learn of the magic lantern work of the protagonist, beset by a chest illness and modern techniques soon to make redundant his already groundbreaking methods of showing motion amid more traditional static sights, delicate crystals and near invisible audiences…

    …which brings me to this enticing thickly hard-covered tenuity of an aesthetic book itself, numbered 19 out of 22 copies, 40 pages, and containing black-leafed sections — and other decorative or textual accoutrements, as with the first book.


Leave a Reply

Please log in using one of these methods to post your comment:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s