A fictional meditation on time and experience—part journal, part meditation, part dreamscape In language that is frank and uncompromising, Rob Stephenson’s debut novel, Passes Through, moves forward in a rare and daring manner. Part journal, part meditation on aesthetics, part dreamscape, Passes Through investigates experience, identity, beauty, and sexuality, while provocatively complicating such distinctions as writing versus revision and imagination versus observation. It is a narrative of and about language, a narrative of and about narrative. Can we truly experience the present, the novel asks? No, we cannot, Passes Through suggests again and again. Stephenson throws to the wayside all of the traditional elements of fiction and in doing so composes a sort of musical composition of obsessive consciousness and selfhood’s slippage. This haunting novel never takes the easy route and baffles and confounds on its way toward a stunning yet inevitable finale.
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Etceteras or An Epitome of Ruins
Afterimages better body café can’t chair color couldn’t dark doesn’t door edge electric guitar empty everything eyes face feel fingers floor folded front fuck glass hand He’s head hidden holes I’ve ideas images inside kiss Lance Olsen latex legs light linoleum look lost Matter and Memory metal mind monogamy move neck never night objects older orange other’s oval paint paper Passes people’s person photographs piece plastic played cards plywood pulled Punk rock says shadow Shadows fall shape side skin sleep smell soft someone else’s someone’s songs squares stay stone stop story strange talk There’s things thought tiny tion told tureen voices waiting walk wall wasn’t watch window wooden words writing you’re young Ziggurats