Friday, January 6, 2012

"All of a Twist" by Reza Negarestani at Weird Fiction Review

I read Reza Negarestani's "Cyclonopedia" this past summer (I think it was summer) and much hated it. I'm not sure how Negarestani has somehow managed (perhaps by black Arabian majicks) to delude the likes of the VanderMeers and China MiƩville into considering him a weird fictioneer, or even someone worth mention, rather than a philosophic imposter, insofar as I found "Cyclonopedia" to be not a piece of fiction at all, so much as a helter-skelter of vapid theory convoluted with fat, Cyclopean language. Yes, "Cyclonopedia" has moments where it shines, where great depth is unearthed with the Cthulhean shudderings of Negarestani's laborious conjurings; but, generally, I call it total farce and neither here nor there.

That said, this is actually a really intelligent article. It is also a real piece of cogent theory (unlike "Cyclonopedia," which was like sifting through the remains of the author's vomit to discover what he had digested). It would be perfect if Negarestani didn't fall back on plugging his half-baked "novel" to wrap up the text... but I recommend it anyway.

oh what the hell, I guess it was alright.

From "All of a Twist" by Reza Negarestani at the Weird Fiction Review:

"Now if narration is both ‘to know’ and ‘to relate’, not only is the narration of/about the contingent reality twisted with a logic endemic to tales of spirit possession (when I think, it is actually the outsider, the demon inside me that thinks through me), but also it is unfolded with the dynamics inherent to conspiracy theories (all relations, adventures and plots are twistedly driven by a secret agreement – or complicity – between contingent and indifferent objective worlds… the more epical the narration, the thicker the conspiracy, the more elliptical the depth of the complicity)..."




  1. I'm not sure if you're being sarcastic, or in which part of your post you're being sarcastic, or...
    ...the turgid cleft-poles of disingenuity despound the slough of despond-esque melancholy of the literati.