I learned: don't sleep with people who have tails or throat-vaginas that whisper truths in the night.
That's pretty unfair--but I half-expected to find this book falling down one of two critical paths: a) the literalization of body/sex angst would become outright silly or b) the body/sex angst would be altogether too adolescent. (My trusted goodreads commadres Montambo and Jessica not-T situated the book in the "b" pile, here
, respectively.) Yet I found myself pretty engrossed, in (yes, I'm a dull sucker for puns) every sense of that term.
The art, first and foremost, is first and foremost--gorgeous black-and-white prints, full of textures and over the course of my reading hypnotic. I often found myself lingering, poring over a frame or frames. And the story--while, yes, bound to that almost-but-thankfully-not-completely-allegorical use of a pervasive sick disease nicked from David Cronenberg's "Movie Ideas" Trapper-Keeper--often captures that adolescent malaise where desire, doubt, and existential uncertainty simmer. (Adulthood is where such things get fully baked, or come off the boil and lose all heat, in the sexual entropy of aging.)
This book prompts such high-falutin' chatter, alas. But don't blame the book. I was surprised by how moved I was at novel's end, surprised at the anxiety the book aroused in me. It's pretty damn good.