Author Mark Richard has definitely stirred the literary soup in FISHBOY, his debut novel. There's a quote on the back cover from a review in ESQUIRE: "An eloquent fever dream, a tale told headlong in the language of incantation" -- and that 'fever dream' description fits this work to a 't'.
As I read my way through this ghost story, a fable replete with inner fables, I felt like I had been dunked into a boiling pot of Herman Melville and William S. Burroughs, illustrated by S. Clay Wilson (those of you who remember his 'perverted pirates' underground comix of the 60s will cringe at this reference), with the film directed by David Lynch. Richard's story bubbles and seethes -- he evidently relishes giving the reader the feeling of being unstuck in both time and place, for there are characters and images in this novel that are plucked from sundry eras and locations, stirred up into an intelligent, interesting, albeit not always appetizing stew. This is a world turned topsy-turvy, reflecting 'reality' like a cracked mirror.
Richard's metaphors are sometimes staggeringly beautiful and captivating -- the sea turned to shorebound landscape with mountains of waves, the land turned to ocean by the rolling tide of subterranean upheavals. Consider this short sample from p.163: 'A loose timber from the sun's sunken wreckage floated up and was dawn on the water. In its cool red light you could see how the waters around us were disturbed from beneath. Globes of old air rose to the surface and shattered, spritzing blooms of kicked-up mud. Mobs of waves rushed crowded swells, slapping faces and knocking caps off to the wind.' Whew.
The narrator of the story -- we know him only as Fishboy -- starts his tale by telling us (from p.1): 'I began as a boy, as a human-being boy, a boy who fled to sea, a boy with a whistling lisp and the silken-tipped fingers of another class. A boy with put-away memories of bedclothes bound tight about the head, knocked by a hammering fist; the smell of cigar and show leather and the weighted burlap bag, thrown from a car into a side-road swamp.' The odyssey he undertakes is a fantastic, circular one -- and he views it with an extremely limited perspective, realting the events that occur with both sheltered naivitee and blinding insight.
The novel is sub-titled 'a ghost story' -- and that it is, although it is unlike any ghost story you are likely to have come across. Richard has imbued this work with a 'graspable' surreality -- and I'm not sure if it's the reader or the story who is doing the grasping. This is an unusual, highly unsettling read.
