Straight to Ell

Another new review of Jesús Ignacio Aldapuerta’s The Eyes:

Γκροτεσκο, ώμο, βίαιο… Σε υπερθετικο βαθμό. Δοκιμαστηκαν οι αντοχές μου και η ανοχή μου. Δεν ξέρω εάν είναι αυτοβιογραφικο, εάν είναι κριτική στον σύγχρονο τρόπο ζωής ή απλά το πόνημα ενός σαδιστη ψυχοπαθους.

Είναι η ματιά του συγγραφέα στα τεκταινομενα ή όσα είδαν τα μάτια του;

Οποια και εάν είναι η απάντηση, η ανάγνωση αυτού του βιβλίου χρειάζεται κότσια, γερό στομάχι και αποστασιοποιηση.

2.5 τα αστεράκια, χάριν στρογγυλοποιησης έγιναν 3. — Review


Translation: Grotesque, shoulder, violent … in the superlative degree. They tested my strength and my tolerance. I do not know if it’s autobiographical, if criticism of modern lifestyle or simply the essay a sadistic psychopath.

It is the look of the author in foursomes or what they saw his eyes?

Whatever the answer, read this book takes guts, a strong stomach and detachment.

2.5 the stars, thanks Rounding became three.


Previously pre-posted:

Eyeway to Ell

Eyeway to Ell

Two new reviews of Jesús Ignacio Aldapuerta’s The Eyes:

Δεν είχα άλλο βιβλίο στα ελληνικά να διαβάσω, αγγλικά βαριόμουν λίγο, οπότε διάβασα αυτό το ανοσιούργημα. Κάποιες ελάχιστες ιστορίες ήταν εντάξει, σκληρές, αλλά τις άντεξα μια χαρά (καλό είναι αυτό τώρα;), αλλά κάποιες ήταν εντελώς εμετικές (π.χ. Αποδεικτικά στοιχεία), και με το ζόρι τις τελείωσα. Όπως και να το κάνουμε το βιβλίο είναι εμετικό, νοσηρό, άρρωστο, πείτε ό,τι άλλο θέλετε. Φυσικά η γραφή είναι πολύ καλή. Αν δεν ήταν τόσο άρρωστος ο συγγραφέας (από αυτά που διάβασα στον πρόλογο, δεν τον ήξερα και από πριν τον τυπά), σίγουρα θα μπορούσε να γράψει κάποια καλογραμμένα μυθιστορήματα τρόμου (έστω και σκληρά). Αλλά φευ… — Review

Translation: I had another book to read in Greek, English a little bored, so I read this outrage. Some few stories were okay, tough, but withstood fine (good is it now?), But some were completely emetic (eg Evidence), and by force of finished. Whatever you do book is emetic, unhealthy, sick, say whatever else you want. Of course the writing is very good. If it was not so sick the author (from what I read in the preface, I did not know from before standards) certainly could write a well written horror novels (even hard). But alas …


Αν το πάρει κανείς κυριολεκτικά είναι πραγματικά… απαίσιο! Αυτό βέβαια είναι, κατά την γνώμη μου, η επιφανειακή κριτική.

Λογοτεχνικά, ο μυστηριώδης αυτός συγγραφέας είχε να δώσει πράγματα καθώς τόσο οι περιγραφές όσο και οι εικόνες που δημιουργεί είναι δείγμα λογοτεχνικής δεξιοτεχνίας. Φυσικά, κανείς δε προσπερνά το άρρωστο του νοήματος.

Αξίζει κάποιος να το διαβάσει (αν διαθέτει γερό στομάχι) και θα διαπιστώσετε πως λογοτεχνικά είναι καλύτερο από την “Φιλοσοφία στο Μπουντουάρ” του μαρκήσιου και προσεγγίζει την “Ιστορία του Ματιού” του Ζ.Μπατάιγ. Αυστηρά για ενήλικο και ώρμο κοινό! — Review

Translation: If you get literally is really … horrible! This of course is, in my opinion, the superficial criticism.

Literature, the mysterious writer he had to give things as well as descriptions and images created are literary virtuosity sample. Of course, no one overtakes the sick of meaning.

It is worth to read (if you have a strong stomach) and you will see that literature is better than the “Philosophy in the Boudoir” Marquis and approaches the “Story of the Eye” of Z.Mpataig. Strictly for adult and ormo public!


Jesús say:

M… P… U….. G… G….. E… R…. | M….. P… A… T….. A… I….. G…. | M… P…. U… R… R… O….. U… G… H… S….. | …(…. | M… P… U….. T… | M… P….. A… L… L….. A… R… D… | M… P….. R… I… L….. L… | …)…

Sime Time

I came across the writings of Simon Whitechapel a year ago after picking up the first twenty or so issues of Headpress, a 1990s ’zine that dealt with the relentlessly grim, the esoteric and prurient. His style was fascinating, coming across as intelligent and well-read and — at least from first reading — subtly ironic.

In fact he must have impressed some other people during this time too as Headpress’ Critical Vision imprint spun his collected articles together for publication under the title Intense Device: A Journey Through Lust, Murder and the Fires of Hell — they have all the typical interests that run through Whitechapel’s work — there is an obsession with numerology, with Whitehouse-style distortion music, with Hitler and de Sade. There are also articles on farting, on Jack Chick and novelisations of TV shows. They are fascinating, written in a scholarly way with footnotes aplenty but never difficult to understand. He also wrote two non-fiction works during the late 1990s and early 2000s that centred around sadism and the murder of women in South America. They are dark.

There are also the works of fiction. To say that Whitechapel is transgressive is an understatement. His writing bleeds. The ‘official’ work The Slaughter King is filled with the detailed descriptions of sadistic murder, beginning with a serial killer murdering a gay prostitute whilst listening to distortion-atrocity music. The plot is schlocky but serviceable, jumping around inconsistently but the images it creates are terrifying. A bourgeois dinner party straight out of Buñuel and Pasolini’s nightmares where guests are served poisons as if they were the finest consommés: they eat bees until their faces swell, dropping dead at the table, finishing with a trifle “made from the berries of the several varieties of belladonna, of cuckoo-pint, and of the flowers of monkshood”. It’s a sinister book, but nothing compared to his second work.

Whitechapel wrote The Eyes. This is clear just from a simple comparison between his texts, the fascination with language, with sadism, with de Sade. The thing is, The Eyes is supposedly written by some guy called Aldapuerta, Spanish apparently. ‘Aldapuerta’ can be written Alda Puerta — ‘at the gate’, a telling description of these short stories, which go past this point many, many times. The tale of ‘Aldapuerta’ himself is too exact to be believed: a young boy with an interest in de Sade, corrupted by the local pornographer, medical-school training that honed his knowledge, then a mysterious death (echoing shades of Pasolini’s own) and finishing with the “and he might be baaaack” closer. But this point isn’t really an issue and it’s understandable that Whitechapel would want to keep his name away from this work. It is also surrealistically brilliant at times: amongst the brutality, the images it creates are unforgettable.

Of course, Whitechapel is a fake name, redolent of Jack the Ripper, and even Simon was taken from elsewhere — a colleague perhaps? He disappeared during the 2000s, no longer writing for Headpress, a few self-published chapbooks pastiching Clark Ashton Smith… where did he go? There are the rumours of prison time — they are convincing to my mind, as they too revolve around different identities, around extremity and anonymity. I wonder though, if true, just how much this individual actually believed in them. His most recent writings, at his tricksy blog, hint at this, as well as make his ‘relationship’ with Aldapuerta clearer but it’s not in my ability to directly connect the personas.

If you want to be fascinated and repulsed, then the non-author Simon Whitechapel is for you.

Lancashire


Elsewhere other-posted:

It’s The Gweel Thing…Gweel & Other Alterities, Simon Whitechapel (Ideophasis Books, 2011)