“The
last kind words ever spoken to Jesus were spoken by a thief.”
Normally,
I'd start off with some kind of hook, a generalized statement that
ties into my feelings about the book being reviewed. Summary. A well
reasoned list of pro's and con's. Professional and clean, if a bit self-conscious at times.
That's
not what you're getting today, because this isn't that kind of book.
The
back flap breakdown would have you believe that this is a story of a
man forced to return home to a broken family of crooks and thieves.
Faced with the brutality of his brother's murder spree, he's been
asked to find the killer of the one person his brother didn't kill. A
murder mystery wrapped in the barbs of crime fiction curled in the
velvet black drapes of noir.
But
that is also not what you are getting today, because it isn't that
type of book.
It's
not really about any of those things, at least not to me. To me, this
is a tale of the sicknesses and sins floating in blood, embedded in
flesh. It's about a man's struggle to find out if he is bound to the
same fate as his family, if genetics, like anatomy, is truly destiny.
The murderous brother who went mad dog one night and killed an old
woman, a family of five (their little daughter included). The history
of graft and theft running generations deep. The dementia whose roots
have all but mushed the brains of the family's eldest and have begun
to worm their way into the younger ones as well. These things that
our dear, humble narrator wants so desperately to believe he can
extricate himself from but fears with just as much certainty that he
cannot escape.
It
says so much about the effect of Piccirilli's writing on me that I
cannot remove myself from it, that I can only speak of it in terms of
myself. That's why I, quite frankly, ride his nuts as if they are my
favorite stallion. His writing is always so intensely personal, that
it becomes personal to me. Here is this man whom I have never met,
who knows nothing about me, yet whose words seem to understand the
deepest fears and hopes bursting inside of me.
Its
a bit scary, really.
I'll
just end with saying that The Last Kind Words resonates
against my own experiences in ways I don't care to share with
strangers, but it's there all the same. There will be those of you
put off by the first person narration and the somewhat overwrought
and bruise-purple prose but my own experience was sublime in the truest,
most Longinus(ian?) sense of the word.
Pic's blog is marvelous and you can buy the book here.
Reviewed
by Anton Cancre
Anton Cancre is one of those rotting, pus-filled thingies on the underside of humanity that your mother always warned you about. He has oozed symbolic word-farms onto the pages of Shroud, Sex and Murder and Horrorbound magazines as well as The Terror at Miskatonic Falls, an upcoming poetry anthology by Shroud Publishing and continues to vomit his oh-so-astute literary opinions, random thoughts and nonsense at antoncancre.blogspot.com. No, he won't babysit you pet shoggoth this weekend. Stop asking.
Anton Cancre is one of those rotting, pus-filled thingies on the underside of humanity that your mother always warned you about. He has oozed symbolic word-farms onto the pages of Shroud, Sex and Murder and Horrorbound magazines as well as The Terror at Miskatonic Falls, an upcoming poetry anthology by Shroud Publishing and continues to vomit his oh-so-astute literary opinions, random thoughts and nonsense at antoncancre.blogspot.com. No, he won't babysit you pet shoggoth this weekend. Stop asking.
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