Zachary Schomburg

This work is special and beautiful, like a small yet defiant flower standing alone in the sun, or a perfectly smoothed rock come upon unexpectedly. And yet, if you asked me what it's about (as a co-worker did the other day) I would be hard-pressed to come up with a satisfactory answer. Love? Loss and mourning? The only haircut worth giving? The simple beauty of this book is enjoyably baffling. I never quite knew what to expect but it was all about the ride. The writing and language made me feel in ways only really comparable to Richard Brautigan or parts of Vonnegut or Tom Robbins. Words that when strung together create alchemical fizzy magic in your brain and chest. In the end maybe God's finger is nothing more than the exquisite joy/pain of existence itself.

Side note: I enjoyed the shout out to Mother Foucault's Books in Portland (acknowledgements).
One of my favorite independent bookstores and a must stop when I am up that way.

And good job featherproof books for creating a high quality physical object.
It was pure pleasure to hold and read.

It's high time for a Pie Time.… (mais)

To call this work surreal is to paint an incomplete picture of it. It is childlike in the way of a wise, curious child-- the precocious sort who travels between both solid and immaterial boundaries, who wanders alone in the woods knowing that's where the wolf lives. But it is also this child as an adult: telling, trying to make sense of what he has seen and experienced, and still curious, still seeking answers and striving towards comprehension. It is beautiful as the heart, both in its variegated metaphor and its beating, fragile reality.… (mais)