Prolix Corpus Libris Sometimes you need a thousand words rather than a picture...

this guy writes the same thing over and over again, but a little different each time, so much like gertrude stein, cyclical, i’ve never encountered someone who does it quite like that, cyclical to the point of incantation - rural fixation, rumination, fish, rivers, mud, brothers, mothers, fathers, rusted nails, reading his prose is like falling asleep on a boat, rocking back and forth, lulling, but sounds too, shocks, and then calm again, though with Markus, it’s visceral and disturbing too. it’s as though he’s writing short stories that are sestinas. can language be soothing and disturbing? yes, i think it can. i know it can.

“When he asks us brothers, Where is your mother, one of us brothers whispers, Fish, and the other one of us mutters, Moon. To this, these words, our father, he nods with his head, then he heads back down to the river. And without so much as a word or a wave from his goodbye, we watch our father walk back across the river’s muddy water, back to the river’s other side: walking and walking and walking on, until he is nothing but a sound that the river sometimes makes when a stone is skipped across it.”