Still Life in Motion
Still Life in Motion by Sean Brijbasi.
I am now in the somewhat awkward position of gushing over a book, and I am far from a gusher. After reading my comments on One-Note Symphonies,
someone asked me why none of my trademark harshness was present. First of all, there are only minor drawbacks to the text as far as I am concerned. Secondly, if someone wants to say bad things about the book, he or she should come forth and say them. I reserve the right not to say
uncomplimentary things about a book/movie/music/piece of art that appeals to me.
Aside from my somewhat capricious reading habits, while reading the first
book I was slightly disoriented but fairly sure that the author had invented
a new literary form. I asked a friend of mine who is something of a book
expert (albeit literature written by Milton and Shakespeare), read it to see
if he agreed. He did not, but he did agree the text was quite unique and
well-crafted.
Only in the last two days have I been able to recognize that if Sean
Brijbasi did not invent a new technique, what he does is completely
original. It’s the same as using Tom Waits as an example of someone who did not invent the musical form he uses but does it like no one else ever has.
Not only is it original; it’s captivating.
At first I noticed that the only shaky spot in either book lies somewhere in
the area of connectivity. However, that is similar to saying that a
painting by Jackson Pollack doesn’t make any sense because you can’t tell
what the subject is by looking at it. Or because you don’t like the way
Schoenberg’s Der Mondfleck sounds, it isn’t good.
Still Life in Motion is a collection of stories to be enjoyed for what they
are. Not for what they mean, not because they make sense in a literal way,
just because they exist. Of course I have my personal favorites in the
book, (the sun is the monster eye) but nowhere is the essence of the
writing conveyed more succinctly than in referencing for cocteau parties:
this is an essential element in overcoming what is called the I
can’t make sense of this shit on its own conundrum. if you are able to read
the first paragraph or line of any work and say with confidence “this work
hearkens back to virgil” or “this does not remind me of e.e. cummings,”
then you will be able to speak the language of the literati fluently.
(163).
Everything I say after that except for “read this book” is superfluous.
6/1/2004
absinthia
