TM Wright's I Am The Bird

"I Am The Bird" is stated often, even insisted upon, in Terry M. Wright's luminous novel of the same name, but that doesn't make it so. In fact (a word too absolute for this book), nothing at all is certain in Mr. Wright's universe of dread.

Max Gorshen appears to be confined to his apartment, and he hints at there being reasons why -- at least physically -- he can't leave. You don't hear the squeak of a wheelchair, and he does run to the Big Apple store next door now and then, but there is a bittersweet memory lingering of a car accident long ago, and a steering column with a mind of its own. I repeat: none of this is certain; these are reconstructed memories written aloud.

In previous works by the author such as A Manhattan Ghost Story and The Playground, the dead loitered, stranded in a limbo of unreliable memories and abruptly canceled desires.

The skeleton of these novels was a more conventional narrative (relatively speaking) in which ordinary characters brushed shoulders with the extraordinary. Recently, Mr. Wright's explorations of memory, desire, mortality and sanity (just what is that exactly? he asks) have taken up residence beyond anything resembling a conventional, "commercial" narrative. I AM THE BIRD and Blue Canoe have their foundation pillars sunk solidly into the mind itself. It's the mind as a bubbling bog, a steaming sucking pit of conflict, contradictions, paranoia, and pure, primitive sexuality. The upshot for the reader is exhilaration.

It is no great shock that Ramsey Campbell has attempted an introduction to this rare tablet of literature.

Ramsey Campbell

In books like The Face That Must Die, he, too, trained his pen on the decaying mind, and death as a lingering aroma. "Insanity is a way of not being left alone," he writes. "Suppose death is indistinguishable from insanity?" In I AM THE BIRD, it is, and only that seems to be certain. "Is writing an act of denial?" he concludes, raising a terribly relevant point, and succeeding in deciphering the key (possibly) to Max Gorshen's process.

The narrative is shared by three voices, although shared is a little too polite. Better to say they jostle for position. Gorshen occupies the narrative limelight initially, but the insularity of his permanent night sweats is broken by (another) man who resides in his hallway and an African parrot who shares his living room. These folks may or may not be an unholy trinity, and it is to Mr. Wright's credit that their relationship is never defined beyond reasonable doubt. It is choices like these that make the work of this author so unique, infuriating, and immensely satisfying.

While lapping up this literary feast, I was reminded of a short, animated film about death and memory. It was part of the anthology Allegro Non Troppo, and focused on a cat who visits the semi-demolished apartment block where he lived long ago.

As he roams through the spaces where life once existed, his memories ignite momentarily and become real enough to experience once more.

It is a beautiful film, and its final revelation is sad and apt. It presents us with the idea that memories can exist separately from our selves, and are capable of breaking away from us like a branch from a tree. And surviving. In I AM THE BIRD, memory may be all that survives, and though it is rewritten, reshaped, and deceived by our unreliable (and failing senses) senses, it is our identity.

Like every character in it, the book's title is not to be trusted. The "I" is heavily underlined and represents a battle for control and superiority. The three story tellers, who may be one split unevenly into three, work hard to prove their legitimacy, and seem destined to struggle eternally. They suffer because of memory, because of need, because of ego. They've learned to vocalize, but they haven't learned to harmonize.

Of course, though the world of Max Gorshen is closing in and petrifying, he finds time and energy to contemplate masturbation and fornication. Like the last oxygen bubble burped from a drowning man, his sexual impulse further clouds his brain as it (falsely) promises a vacation from the madness. His rumination on the bird Langley's sexual habits provides one of the book's funniest passages:

As highly intelligent as he (Langley) so obviously is, his brain is set up only for mating (on the fly, so to speak, quickly and efficiently, but without the sort of tender, love, affection and need that we humans find so appealing and necessary), and then it quickly moves on to equally important, though separate matters -- eluding predators, finding nuitritious vegetation and edible insects.

In this, Gorshen may be acknowledging the complexity of human needs while admiring (and envying perhaps?) the lack of BS clogging the arteries of the animal kingdom. If only it were that simple for us?

Few writers of the fantastique get to the marrow of what it is to be born and die slowly over a lifetime. For Terry Wright, this is his territory, and he knows it like a caddie knows every club in a golf pro's bag.

Self portrait of Mr. Wright

In I AM THE BIRD, he mines the mental escarpment and documents the drawbacks of radical changes in elevation. Nobody does it better.

***

The 2006 edition of TM Wright's I AM THE BIRD from UK-based PS Publishing is a beautifully presented literary country that is well worth your discovery.

http://store.pspublishing.co.uk/

Judge Them By Their Covers

Never judge a book by its cover. Bullshit!

I read Hallahan's "Keeper of the Children" after I'd read "Misfire", a terrific novel about the US government's failure to adequately equip the military. No doubt about it, the "Keeper..." artwork is top notch and highly evocative. It is also misleading artwork, suggesting a novel about killer toys. For me, it recalls some of the bizarre Zebra Books artwork from the 80's, which I adore, although it's slightly more polished.

"Keeper Of The Children" is a must-read for anyone who appreciates a yarn well spun.
Alabama-born writer Michael McDowell died of AIDS in 1999, and his death was a terrible loss to literature.

One of the most underrated writers of his generation, most of his novels are now out of print. Avon published first edition paperbacks of his work beginning with "The Amulet" and concluding with "Blackwater", a mini-series of six connected novels. Not only did Stephen King cite McDowell for greatness in his "Danse Macabre", he followed McDowell's lead when he released "The Green Mile" in series form.
The Boston-set "Katie" focuses on the homicidal rampage of a young woman who kills her mother's customers with a hammer. It is exquisitely grotesque and odd, and elevated to art by McDowell's amazing facility with language. What a rotten, awful thing that he is no longer with us.

Avon's marketing line, "Katie never killed with kindness", perfectly captures the macabre, darkly humorous tone of McDowell's language.

No writer personifies "pulp fiction" more than Guy N. Smith, the legendary storyteller from Shropshire, England, whose "Night of the Crabs", "The Slime Beast", and "The Sucking Pit" are unequaled for sheer, bloody brilliance.

With almost 100 horror novels to his revered name, Smith is a one-man horror industry.

The setting for "Manitou Doll" (Hamlyn Paperbacks; '81) is a mysterious fairground, that becomes an arena for rape, dismemberment, and mass murder.

Smith writes with the confidence of a man who doesn't give a fuck whether he offends you, scares the shit out of you, or rattles your sensitivities. What he does care about is keeping your eyes riveted to that page.

I intend to write a lot more about Smith. For now, track down a copy of "Manitou Doll". It's as good as its gleefully fiendish cover.

Few writers create unease with the subtlety of TM Wright, whose "A Manhattan Ghost Story" (Tor; '84) sent Hollywood producers into a flurry. They shelled out $2 million for the rights and paid Sharon Stone $6 million to star in it; Sharon got paid, the movie didn't get made (not yet, anyway).

Set in Manhattan, it's the tale of a parallel society of the dead, and a man who infiltrates its corners.

The back jacket of the Tor paperback establishes the novel's tone succinctly:

"They're waiting for you. Around that dusky corner, beyond that unlit window, in the next office you visit.

"You're alive, aren't you?

"They want revenge for that. And they'll get it."

My initial encounter with Wright was "Strange Seed" (Everest House; '78), the first of a mind-bending series about a race of humans who are, literally, the children of Mother Earth. In "Danse Macabre", Stephen King identified the book as one of his favorites of all time.

Wright has a unique, powerful voice, and the ability to create a rhythm with language that remains in the psyche like a tattoo.