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Ah Shook One Plaintive Hand Heavenward
// 7th May
I have decided that for now, every time I read a dork-book (uni book), I will read a proper book as well. ‘Cause if I don’t, I might go mad. Or just turn out like most of the other kids at my uni.
So in light of some awful book I had to review, I’ve just finished reading Nick Cave’s And The Ass Saw The Angel.
It’s a rough read, entirely oppressive, and wound tight. It’s spiral into hyperbolic disaster hooks you in much like in Lord of The Barnyard. The introduction is sensational, and it only gets better from there. It’s no secret that Cave had a lot of interesting substances flowing through his body during the time he wrote the book. It is rumoured that when he ran out of ink he used his own blood to keep writing. Yeah… probably not, but the book does read like it was written. The narrative slips unannounced between first and third person. The first part of the book consists of two or three page chapters, the second part contains more conventional chapters, and the third part is one giant chapter where the end is all spewed out in what feels like one sentence.
The story begins with a sensational introduction to Euchrid Eucrow, a young man slowly being sucked toward his death in a bog. From there he recounts his entire life, from his tragicomic birth, to his enquiring youth, and the miserable, tragic, delusional, and destructive twenty years that followed. It is clear from the start that Euchrid has some God issues. Or God has some issues with Euchrid.
Like Ezekiel, Daniel or Jonah, the very essence of mah success was rooted in great personal catastrophe – priceless information gleaned as from the pit, or the den, or the whale’s belly.
The book slides sometimes seamlessly, sometimes abruptly, between humour and harshness. In recounting his mother, Euchrid says;
Ma Crow has three stills. These are the brews: White Jesus, Apple Jack, Stew. The hobos call White Jesus – which she makes from potato peelings – White Lightning, but the cane-men call it Ecker’s Tears. Ma Crow’s choice is White Jesus. The Apple Jack is Jack to the hobos, Widow’s Piss or Widow Water to the cane-men. Apple Jack is the most popular brew as it is nearly drinkable. Unlike White Jesus, Apple Jack will solidify when frozen. The hobos call Stew, Stew mostly, though some of the older ones mix it up with Ma Crow’s choice and call it wrongly Stewed Jesus. The cane-men call it Stiff, Piss, Swill, Bilge, Shit, and it is made from fermentable scraps. This brew is often touch and go and is sold cheaper than the rest.
And in lamenting his own foul bloodlines;
‘If it ain’t one thing, then it’s a hundred others,’ ah thought. ‘Weighed in the balance and found wanting. Defect and Deformity. Blemish and Flaw. Handicap, Inadequacy and Malady. Will this shabby lot hobble forever at mah heel, from now unto the grave, evermore to be the sorry dogs of mah days?’ ah greived, feeling downright sorry for mahself. ‘How can ah launch a holy war’ – ah beat at mah sunken chest with mah free hand – ‘when mah battledress is more chink than fucken armour?’ Ah shook one plaintive hand heavenward.
The violence, obscenity, and climaxes, continue along the same vein, so it repulsed my sensibilities at points. By the end of the book it’s hard to know whether Euchrid is simply on the receiving end of a lot of bad luck, some divinely inspired creation, or just stark raving mad.
‘Let the sleeping dogs lie. But don’t believe a word they say. Ah am the Truth. Ah am the Light. Every dog has its day. Ah am having mine now. Mah time is nigh. You’re too late, Mister Hay-Rake, Mister Spade. Ah said, hey boss, take up that cross and put on your walking shoes. Yes, you lose, Mr Noose. Today belongs to me! Not thee! Me! Me! Me! This day is mine! Into the ranks of the elite ah climb, saying, ‘This is the last day! This is the last day! The last day is mine!’ There are plenny others, brothers. Take your pick, take your hoe. Take your goddamn gallow. Leave this day alone. Sift through all your yesterdays. Don’t count on your tomorrow. Ah can see them coming and it’s not a pretty sight. The fear is here. The fright. Here is the night.’
There’s a decent review at Dogmatika (language warning, and watch out for the random conclusion), and it seems Cave is writing a new book too.
1 Comment
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and here was I thinking that reviewers were supposed to have at least a little bit of objectivity in their reviews.
mizzle, May 9th