By Max Blecher, Michael Henry Heim
Often known as “the Kafka of Romania,” Max Blecher died younger yet now not ahead of growing this incandescent novel.
Adventures in instant Irreality, the masterwork of Max Blecher—a outstanding author who brings to brain Bruno Schulz—paints in brilliant colours the crises of “irreality” that plagued him in his formative years, eerie mirages in which he may glimpse destiny occasions, sparkling glimpses unsettling in each way. In gliding chapters that flow with a weird dream common sense in their personal, this memoiristic novella sketches the tremulous, scary and exhilarating awakenings of a truly younger guy.
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Additional info for Adventures In Immediate Irreality
One day something totally out of the ordinary occurred. The adventure presaged disaster at first, but had a surprise ending, one so sudden and dependent on such a minor incident that the pleasure it subsequently gave me was like a construction made of incongruous objects that only a prestidigitator could hold together. In one fell swoop Clara radically altered the tenor of my visits, gave them a new meaning and new titillations. It was rather like the famous chemistry experiment in which a crystal dropped into a red liquid instantly transforms it to a bright green.
The animal ingested them with obvious relish. Blecher threads his observations into every page of this book just as densely and accurately. The details go clicking by. Tiny filaments of hair, little balls of agate, small tables, miniature dogs, petite bouquets—within the sweet substance of the diminutive, the details head into the monstrous. M. —was a Romanian Jew, born in 1909 in Botoşani in the northeastern part of the country. His family owned a small ceramic factory on the edge of town and a ceramics and porcelain shop in the center.
His organs alone are insufficient, they need something else, and they lie in wait for the objects, which are likewise in need. Their features entice the body, wresting away its feelings which they then consume. The internal and the external engage in mutual indecent assault, and in the end it’s impossible to say which side instigated the voracious encounter—whether the person assailed the object to the point of breakdown, or vice versa. The paths beneath the feet are constantly hoisted into the head.