This little, tiny, almost pocket-sized book is chock-full of strong poetic language and adds a grain of sand to the secluded beach of literature. The metaphors are so strong that they seize to be metaphors, they are lungful blows that clear away the dust that covers reality so you can see, for a change, something authentic.
Disappointed by contemporary literature, I had abandoned the modern writers and stayed on with the wise old men and women, smoking my pipe. And when my friend Alex stormed in my house one day and snapped my pipe away, I jumped off my comfy chair and screamed, Give this pipe back to its owner right away it is my great grandfather’s pipe from back home, he took a long long long puff and coughed his insides out and threw this little book at me and said, You better read this motherfucker. He went to the kitchen to eat my food and I opened Drown and read and read and read screaming, THIS IS TERRIFIC, and by the time I had read the first story Alex had finished with the fridge’s top two shelves. I went to the kitchen and read the second story while he was frying and eating eggs with ketchup. In the third story he ate my biscuits, had a coffee/smoke break while I read the next story, and we drank all my wine while my eyes stayed faithful to Drown. What a fucking brilliant little book.
About the reviewer
Kamratrabisinianian Kabasutrabramanian works for IBM.
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