books?" The kid was so frightened he made a statement of fact a question, the sentence rising in pitch at the end.
"Thanks. You can keep them."
Burke strolled down the crowded Ventura Boulevard, mildly surprised to find the day coming to a close. He found a parking ticket on his vehicle. He tore up and tossed it away. The car would change owners several times before the city had registered the existence of the citation, might even be out of the state. Tony Monteleone would take care of it.
Burke drove down Ventura to Hazeltine and turned north. He left his car in the lot of the Trader Joe's store and jogged over to the park around the corner. Hispanic children were laughing and throwing water balloons at a nearby birthday party. Their lips were red or purple from cheap snow cones. Other children hung from the bars of the jungle gym. The sun would soon be setting, but Burke figured he had just enough time. He scribbled notes on the yellow pad, brief thoughts on the tone of the previous work, more to have something to do than from necessity.
He sat beneath the canopy of a sickly elm and opened Stryker's magnum opus. The main character in A Taste for Flesh was a middle-aged loner whose life was fading fast. He was being passed over for promotions. His wife had left him for another, much younger man. The beaten-down protagonist elected to take a long vacation in Europe. He wandered east, into the former Soviet satellites. Although he loved the art and culture, the protagonist found the economic and social circumstances depressing. Soon he was drinking too much and seriously contemplating suicide. Burke was pleasantly surprised. The novel had proven to be far more literate than pulp, at least to this point. Indeed, it was well conceived and deftly written. Burke had momentarily forgotten the author's reputation and found himself absorbed by both the telling and the tale.
And that's when Stryker went for the throat, quite literally: the protagonist was bitten by a wolf. His story turned on a dime and became a lurid tale of the mythical and the lycanthropic, the hero as a troubled werewolf. Yet Burke still found the novel compelling, for while the man descended into madness, he also began to re-discover his archetypal masculine power. The man becomes the wolf as the wolf becomes the man. To be sure, both did murder in a plethora of crimson ways. The violence was blunt, to the point, and decidedly messy, but as Burke himself knew all too well, so was violence in real life. It was the subtext that was most gripping; a hint of Nietzsche, lightly seasoned with Joseph Campbell.
He read on. Much weight was given to the ramifications of anthropophagy, the devouring of human flesh, and its varied implications. The protagonist, as the novel progressed, slowly moved from an attitude of revulsion to one of spiritual reverence. This odd concoction was then half-baked in recycled Stephen King imagery, but worked nonetheless. At the end of the novel, the protagonist had become something of a God to the peasants in the countryside and a hero to himself again. His inevitable physical death, therefore, was of very little consequence because his spirit lived on.
The acknowledgments made reference to a Dr. Theodore Merriman. Burke decided on the spot to pay the man a visit.
He lowered the book and rubbed his weary eyes. The park was flooding with long, cool shadows and most of the picnicking families had gone home. He watched three males of indeterminate age as they tossed a football in a long, triangulated pattern. Their voices, shrill with enthusiasm and ribald humor, stroked his weary brain. He envied them their laughter.
Later, Burke stopped at a nearly empty restaurant for a plain chicken breast and a salad. He sat alone at a table near the front window, listening to Vivaldi with half an ear, weary eyes on the rush hour traffic, a sea of headlights, tail lights, street lamps all reflecting and refracting light. Meanwhile a gentle mist of
"Thanks. You can keep them."
Burke strolled down the crowded Ventura Boulevard, mildly surprised to find the day coming to a close. He found a parking ticket on his vehicle. He tore up and tossed it away. The car would change owners several times before the city had registered the existence of the citation, might even be out of the state. Tony Monteleone would take care of it.
Burke drove down Ventura to Hazeltine and turned north. He left his car in the lot of the Trader Joe's store and jogged over to the park around the corner. Hispanic children were laughing and throwing water balloons at a nearby birthday party. Their lips were red or purple from cheap snow cones. Other children hung from the bars of the jungle gym. The sun would soon be setting, but Burke figured he had just enough time. He scribbled notes on the yellow pad, brief thoughts on the tone of the previous work, more to have something to do than from necessity.
He sat beneath the canopy of a sickly elm and opened Stryker's magnum opus. The main character in A Taste for Flesh was a middle-aged loner whose life was fading fast. He was being passed over for promotions. His wife had left him for another, much younger man. The beaten-down protagonist elected to take a long vacation in Europe. He wandered east, into the former Soviet satellites. Although he loved the art and culture, the protagonist found the economic and social circumstances depressing. Soon he was drinking too much and seriously contemplating suicide. Burke was pleasantly surprised. The novel had proven to be far more literate than pulp, at least to this point. Indeed, it was well conceived and deftly written. Burke had momentarily forgotten the author's reputation and found himself absorbed by both the telling and the tale.
And that's when Stryker went for the throat, quite literally: the protagonist was bitten by a wolf. His story turned on a dime and became a lurid tale of the mythical and the lycanthropic, the hero as a troubled werewolf. Yet Burke still found the novel compelling, for while the man descended into madness, he also began to re-discover his archetypal masculine power. The man becomes the wolf as the wolf becomes the man. To be sure, both did murder in a plethora of crimson ways. The violence was blunt, to the point, and decidedly messy, but as Burke himself knew all too well, so was violence in real life. It was the subtext that was most gripping; a hint of Nietzsche, lightly seasoned with Joseph Campbell.
He read on. Much weight was given to the ramifications of anthropophagy, the devouring of human flesh, and its varied implications. The protagonist, as the novel progressed, slowly moved from an attitude of revulsion to one of spiritual reverence. This odd concoction was then half-baked in recycled Stephen King imagery, but worked nonetheless. At the end of the novel, the protagonist had become something of a God to the peasants in the countryside and a hero to himself again. His inevitable physical death, therefore, was of very little consequence because his spirit lived on.
The acknowledgments made reference to a Dr. Theodore Merriman. Burke decided on the spot to pay the man a visit.
He lowered the book and rubbed his weary eyes. The park was flooding with long, cool shadows and most of the picnicking families had gone home. He watched three males of indeterminate age as they tossed a football in a long, triangulated pattern. Their voices, shrill with enthusiasm and ribald humor, stroked his weary brain. He envied them their laughter.
Later, Burke stopped at a nearly empty restaurant for a plain chicken breast and a salad. He sat alone at a table near the front window, listening to Vivaldi with half an ear, weary eyes on the rush hour traffic, a sea of headlights, tail lights, street lamps all reflecting and refracting light. Meanwhile a gentle mist of
Similar Books
