In this haunted house
lie my memories of Tang:
juice, & Dynasty.
Oh Gene Wolfe hates you. Or rather, Gene Wolfe is a chigger, an biting itch-giver, & he wants to lay his eggs all over the inside of your skull. In Peace he's not even kidding around about it. The story is told from the point of view of-- well, that is the question isn't it? The frame isn't very clear, but oh it is there. An old man, the last man alive, in a vast mansion, each room of which is a vignette of his memory. Or a man dying of a stroke watching his life flash before his eyes. Or the president of an orange juice company slowly losing his mind, but quizzed by doctors who suspect him mad. The book is strung together of memory & anecdotes, stories overheard-- & each with the ending, clip! removed. A cliff-hanger without resolution. A mosquito crawling in your ear. So here is Peace, a torus, a twisted bit of narrative that you stare at, hoping the 3-d pattern jumps out at you. & maybe it does. Notably also: a book binder who forged the Necronomicon & made it real. It happened.
