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/
The Des Lewis Gestalt Real-Time Reviews 
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From my earlier review of Jimmie in OUT OF THE DEEP…
He no longer sleeps, as he did as a boy, in the attic, but he chooses a bigger room, with painted nymphs on the ceiling and an array of bell-pulls that evokes campanology in his mind. Suffering from insomnia, he tempts fate by impetuously, petulantly tugging the crimson tassel of a bell-pull and receives ‘bell-answerers’, i.e. the service of a valet he desires as a sort of boyish vision and later a girl with pigtails as her own bell-pulls. He taunts them with capricious requests, like the one for primroses. (“‘Look here,’ said Jimmie, dexterously raising himself to his elbow on the immense lace-fringed pillow, ‘it’s all very well; you have managed things quite admirably, considering your age and the season, and so on. But I didn’t ask for primroses, I asked for violets. That’s a very old trick – very old trick.’”) But later what he summons is a blurred whitish animal, not the white elephant he thought of before, but a pig-like creature in word-resonance with the pig-tails. With at least a hint of social satire filtered by this ‘whiteness’ theme: “And snapping out insults at former old cronies who couldn’t help their faces being as tiresome as a whitewashed pigsty had soon grown wearisome.”
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