Tome of a Heretofore Unknown Personage – by Bardolph, Baronis and Telling.
I began this review long ago in a completely different vein, a more commonplace and recognized style of ‘review’, yet my mercurial temperament got the better of me and I decided to throw those virtual letters to the virtual wind and begin again. Yet even still, as I now re-read and leaf through this Tome of a Heretofore Unknown Personage, I’m very tempted to make specific note of many, many sections of verse… however, I realize that would be a disservice to the author… a bastardization of the medium, a cheapening of his hard work. This is something he created for people to read, to experience themselves, not something to have the magic and secrets greedily sucked out of and marginalized by over-anxious commentators such as myself. I do not want to kill the excitement and/or the mystery of the novel. It reveals itself to you at its own, very deliberate pace as it is read; it was written a certain way after all – and that way only becomes clear when experienced within the meticulously constructed context of the whole. So forgive my new found tendency to be very general when I speak of this work. I’ll focus the following observations of mine around general themes and the “essence” of the work.
Work like this is a blatant act of subversive defiance towards our modern malaise, it refuses to allow us our pitiful and lazy conceits… it does not pander to the safety afforded us by other, banal works of modern writing. It is not a rote and linear story told thousands of times before, comfortably recognizable in its structure… no, this is a bomb which topples those structures with the perverse glee of a significantly inspired madman. A bomb composed from pages and pages of lovingly loquacious and multi-layered ideas; this is writing as rebellion; adamantly refusing the ease of cliché. This is a novel made for what is perhaps a dead (or, at the very least, certainly dying) audience; one willing to devote attention, thought and time to respecting literature not only as an art, but as a religion… yes again, that frightening prospect to the modern day reader; you’ll have to devote attention, energy and time… Apropos, as time in this book is malleable, omnipotent, yet also utterly inconsequential in a way, interchangeable and dynamic, it seems to posit that it indeed isn’t really time which matters ultimately, but ideas – ideologies and/or the lack thereof; the essential dichotomies which infuse and define existence, life, drama, etcetera, writ large and lit with a constantly honest and unflinchingly harsh light. Choice. Action, or the decision, however subtle, not to act, is what time amounts to, what it measures and suffers. Time, after all, is pre-defined, especially our time in these bodies, we cannot change our allotted time, it can not evolve or expand within our own experience… Yet on the other hand there is thought, thought can evolve, it can alter our experience of time in a very tangible and corporeal fashion. It seems as if there is a constant lucidity and, at the same time, an endless psychogenic fugue within which this work exists and operates. Things happen with synchronicity, things which happened long ago are referenced within the context of the character’s present tense experiences, things which may or may not ever have occurred are related and discussed. Of course our sly, serpentine author plays upon this stage of strange literary devices, hiding under a cloak of presumed, fictional anonymity, the ‘authors’ of the text(s), Bardolph, Baronis & Telling, are avatars of this concept of time and space unraveled. They represent perhaps fractured time, psyche and intent… The job of art, it may be said, is to engage, challenge and confront the viewer… this book does these things before you even open it. The cover itself, complicit in the game already, with the abstract face, the “author’s” names; the fiction has already begun, it has broken down the fourth wall, and slyly begun to nod your way before you’ve turned a single page. The main character could be described many ways, libertine, intellectual, father, artist, rebel, addict, mystic, searcher; protagonist and antagonist at once. However, no matter how complex and labyrinthine the characters, the plot or even the parlance seem to become, the work still always remains somehow experienced on a base, emotional and very relatable, human level. Speaking directly to our instinct and id, engaging the reptilian and most sophisticated areas of our psyche all at once, this work helps to re-define psychological literature as something which can be immensely readable and approachable on an enjoyable and absorbing level, breaking it free from the previously stuffy, polarizing, un-enchanting and un-approachable mold in which it has unfortunately been cast for so long.
That all being said, I should make it a point to be a bit more clear, so as not to scare potential, perhaps more casual readers away from this profound literary experience; there is indeed a main character with a storyline weaving through the entirety of the book, there is a strong thread connecting the unique pieces herein. Admittedly there are asides, shorts and a grand section of meditations which destroy the semblance of standard structure, yet there is definitely a central storyline propelling the novel towards its conclusion and it certainly flows along in a way which makes the rest of the insanity seem perfectly sane and completely justifiable. There is nothing superfluous here, everything applies accordingly and all the various pieces, no matter how seemingly scattered, are poignant and necessary. This is not a slap-dash collection of ideas thrown together in a hastily constructed collage, it is a finely tuned and impeccably conceived work of the utmost care and precision. One which does not, without sincere intent, befuddle and discombobulate unsuspecting readers. This is not a sterile and overly stern work; it has a sense of humor, it champions vibrant celebrations of emotion and life within its pages, it enjoys itself and encourages this playful irreverence in its reader’s as well.
I should also clear up the point of authorship. Out of respect for the artist, and because I have not been specifically given permission to do so, I will not divulge the author’s true identity, needless to say his name is not Bardolph, Baronis or even Telling. I have my predilections as far as the way my works are presented and I certainly appreciate the desire and the will of other artists to keep their creation’s mysteries alive.
SO…
What does all of that add up to? What comes of the fact that the author has written this book for an audience on the endangered species list, that he not only refuses to play by the ridiculous rules paraded about by all the sycophantic charlatans with publishing contracts today, but systematically attacks and denounces them? It adds up to courage, to the only reason to write anymore, honesty and passion in black and white, yet completely grey all over. A commitment to keeping literature as a religion alive, Surrealism and poetry personified.
It is not hyperbole when I say this is definitely one of the best contemporary novels I’ve ever had the pleasure of reading. A work which utterly destroys and reinforces my own desires to write; I see the arrangement of words, which float effortlessly along, playing off one another in that sublime poetic dance, possessed as it is in the pen of all truly great writers, and I want to weep and shout for joy and futility all at once. There were many times when I had to simply stop and re-read a section I had just gone by, unwilling to let the experience of the words drift away into another. This was an experience to remember, one that will make you sincerely want to revisit the world and characters it so succinctly creates. An experience that will rank up with the best times you’ve had turning pages and projecting the images of unknown pleasures upon the mind’s eye. This will be a book which proudly and deservedly sits on your shelf amongst works that have changed your views, breathed life into your many souls, invigorated the senses and without question, championed literature as the religion of truth and life.
Post script:
It may be in poor taste, or simply lazy of me to do this, but allow me, for the sake of people reading this who may have been turned off by my verbosity, to compare this work to other, more well known novels from the past. These completely different fictional worlds, characters and stories do not necessarily compare directly to Tome of a Heretofore Unknown Personage, yet I feel they stand as strikingly similar works in one way or another, be it tone, spirit or structure.
Celine’s Journey to the End of the Night
Cervantes’ Don Quixote
Joyce’s Ulysses
Random, anonymous author’s The Holy Bible
The book can be purchased at some of the following places online:
The Press Release can be viewed here:
http://www.mmdnewswire.com/literary-fiction-4868.html
