Antwerp dates from when the author was shifting his principal mode of expression from poetry to fiction. It consists of 56 numbered chapters totally a mere 76 pages.
The setting is Barcelona. There is little in the way of plot connecting the 56 vignettes or mini-narratives or prose poems: each segment tends to be provisional, contingent, and relative. Antwerp, with its frustrating fragmentation and hallucinations, gives the impression of being a cobbled assemblage of pages. There is no journey; instead, there is a seeming lack of intention. Yes, there is textual inventiveness throughout the book, but if the author meant this to be an experiment in meta-fiction, what he has rendered is, in my judgment, not a success.
To avoid disappointment the reader must alter his or her expectations before delving into Antwerp. To those souls I offer these words. One way to prepare for the book is to adopt the style and practice of a detective. Treat Antwerp as a sheaf of papers found in the drawer of a prospective master. Abetting this plan are the physical contours of the book — a small, slim object, jacket-less, black in color, looking like an intimate notebook, divorced from any context, apparently casually set aside.
Cinematic touches abound. You know not to expect answers, or in this book a sustainable melody. In retrospect, we know greatness awaited. Sophie Podolski is mentioned on pages 4 and It happened to me. He was in state of transitioning not only as a writer but as a person; or in his case did this amount to the same thing?
The statement is a smokescreen, a subterfuge, a lie that shields the truth of his feared descent into sentimentality, of his condition post- Antwerp. Ultimately the reader is left confused. Is this a novel driven by a postmodern, meta-fictional agenda? Is it the developmental record of a potentially fully-formed novel? Is it a denatured autobiography? This entry was posted on Sunday, April 18th, at pm and is filed under Authors , Book Reviews.
