Christoper Zeischegg The Magician (2020)
This has been quite a surprise on several fronts, not least being its big fat four-hundred pages girth, stepped up from the Amphetamine Sulphate norm of forty or so. It's approximately a horror novel - albeit one which reads more like hallucinatory autobiography in all but a couple of places - and is a horror novel written by a former porn star, and one who won some sort of porn biz award for wife swapping action or something of the sort; so that's doubtless a whole stack of expectations set up right there. Additionally, there's the intimation of magic, or probably magick, given that we're never too far from that sort of thing when navigating waters such as we have here, which is a subject I tend to associate with persons in black clothes who talk complete fucking bollocks, usually with a flashlight held directly beneath the chin so as to appear spooky and mysterious like that Paul Daniels or someone from Coil.
All the same, by this point it's become clear that Amphetamine Sulphate aren't just going to publish any old shite, and true to form, not only does The Magician refrain from doing anything stupid or obvious, but it's yet another of those which isn't quite like anything I've ever read - which admittedly may say more about me than it does about Zeischegg. It took me a while to realise that the narrative wasn't purely autobiographical in the literal sense of Bukowski's efforts in the same direction, which I mention because it shares both Los Angeles and a stripped down, muscular prose which delivers without unnecessary distraction. Given a few of the scenes, I'm quite glad it's not purely autobiographical for the author's sake. There's arguably nothing more harrowing than you will have seen on an episode of, off the top of my head, Breaking Bad, so the actual horror - as distinct from individual horrific acts, which are in any case few and far between - is, I suppose, existential, being a catalogue of the seemingly inevitable decline of our author, brought down by his own existence, by his own will to live even in the knowledge of tomorrow being worse. There's a lot of Christianity involved, which put me in mind of half-remembered folk horror movies of the seventies transposed to California, but which seems to give the story some sort of structure. The Book of Job is referenced quite early on, seemingly implying that our narrator views himself as subject to similar trials. The Magician is fairly mild for something in which Satan (probably) makes an actual appearance (maybe), as written by a man who has been known to take it up the bum for cash, but its power is profound, and is to be found in the grinding inevitability of our man's descent in a seemingly hopeless world populated by the sort of spotty denim-clad losers who pass by in the background of comic strips drawn by Daniel Clowes. The Magician is sad and powerful without any of the usual button pushing one finds in the genres to which it is related. Additionally, while Bukowski's trials often seemed down to the basics of cause and effect, as with the aforementioned Job, there's not much to suggest that Christopher the Magician deserves any of what happens to him.
This has been quite a surprise on several fronts, not least being its big fat four-hundred pages girth, stepped up from the Amphetamine Sulphate norm of forty or so. It's approximately a horror novel - albeit one which reads more like hallucinatory autobiography in all but a couple of places - and is a horror novel written by a former porn star, and one who won some sort of porn biz award for wife swapping action or something of the sort; so that's doubtless a whole stack of expectations set up right there. Additionally, there's the intimation of magic, or probably magick, given that we're never too far from that sort of thing when navigating waters such as we have here, which is a subject I tend to associate with persons in black clothes who talk complete fucking bollocks, usually with a flashlight held directly beneath the chin so as to appear spooky and mysterious like that Paul Daniels or someone from Coil.
All the same, by this point it's become clear that Amphetamine Sulphate aren't just going to publish any old shite, and true to form, not only does The Magician refrain from doing anything stupid or obvious, but it's yet another of those which isn't quite like anything I've ever read - which admittedly may say more about me than it does about Zeischegg. It took me a while to realise that the narrative wasn't purely autobiographical in the literal sense of Bukowski's efforts in the same direction, which I mention because it shares both Los Angeles and a stripped down, muscular prose which delivers without unnecessary distraction. Given a few of the scenes, I'm quite glad it's not purely autobiographical for the author's sake. There's arguably nothing more harrowing than you will have seen on an episode of, off the top of my head, Breaking Bad, so the actual horror - as distinct from individual horrific acts, which are in any case few and far between - is, I suppose, existential, being a catalogue of the seemingly inevitable decline of our author, brought down by his own existence, by his own will to live even in the knowledge of tomorrow being worse. There's a lot of Christianity involved, which put me in mind of half-remembered folk horror movies of the seventies transposed to California, but which seems to give the story some sort of structure. The Book of Job is referenced quite early on, seemingly implying that our narrator views himself as subject to similar trials. The Magician is fairly mild for something in which Satan (probably) makes an actual appearance (maybe), as written by a man who has been known to take it up the bum for cash, but its power is profound, and is to be found in the grinding inevitability of our man's descent in a seemingly hopeless world populated by the sort of spotty denim-clad losers who pass by in the background of comic strips drawn by Daniel Clowes. The Magician is sad and powerful without any of the usual button pushing one finds in the genres to which it is related. Additionally, while Bukowski's trials often seemed down to the basics of cause and effect, as with the aforementioned Job, there's not much to suggest that Christopher the Magician deserves any of what happens to him.
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