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If you locked Poe, Shirley Jackson, and Ian McEwan in a niter-encrusted basement, fed them a ghoul's diet, and siphoned off their commingled blood for injections, you might derive a sensory high similar to that delivered by Doug Rice's prose.
Paul Di Filippo |
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Rice's prose is a wondrous thing, a kind of porn on acid as transcribed by J.R.R. Tolkein that wraps the virtually nonstop sex scenes in a lush, quirky, wide-eyed innocent poetry of elegantly bad manners ... It's as though Rice, in his high post modernist fashion, set out to write a novel of the sort that Acker's and Burroughs' novels would want to have sex with.
Dennis Cooper, author of Closer |
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How many holes does a body have? How many holes can be made? Might they be filled with foreigners, with your father's and sister's cocks, with pennies from Heaven? How many poems, eaten raw, would be required to convert the word into flesh? How might a girl, who was a boy, have his cunt taken in a basement, become lost in her grandma's endless bed, remove glue from her lips and barbed wire from her tongue? Failed Thanksgiving dinners aside, you must learn the answers to these questions (and numerous others) within these sticky pages. Digest them, but try a little antacid first.
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