oh god tony burgess, you are such a sick fuck.
i am terrified of tony burgess, i really am.
this book in particular is such a barrage of bloodshed and senseless brutality. he claims to have intended it as a commentary on war—on regular people getting caught in the crossfire of violence as collateral damage, but this explanation is not comforting if you are just reading this book without that knowledge.
it is a series of short stories, taking place in the same ontario neighborhood, in which people die. people die in explosions of blood. fountains of it. people standing in their living rooms, walking on the street, living their lives.
no one here gets out alive.
the best story, to my mind, is 102 mcallister street, in which a mother and son watch the film hostel together. “the first half is sex, the second half is torture.” this character’s very apt description of the movie becomes an appropriate description of the story, as well. (if surreptitious masturbation counts as “sex.” i think it does.)
i read this right before bed last night because i didn’t want to finish the book i was almost finished, leaving me stranded on the subway with nothing to read, but it may have been the wrong thing to read right before bed. technicolor nightmares, my friends…
but i like nightmares.