One relates to the collective psyche's multifaceted relationship with food. Several threads resound throughout Bombyonder. Whether it's a text message to the protagonist's only friend Lily, a pained letter to her unconceived, nonexistent, feminine brother Rauan, a nod to an event called the "One Million Angry Penis March," or even an outlier chapter called something like "Fluffy Monster," the novel's short fragments speak complex magic, and they should be relished for their rich language and philosophical prowess.
Though the overarching narrative-scant as it is-is dramatic and thematically lofty, there is much joy to be found in Bombyonder's tiny slices. The protagonist's situation is dire as she works out problems of heritage, legacy, love, sex, and feminism, and what it means just to be in a very complicated world. On this ride, there is an emblematic barfed up bird, another murder, fake men she creates to save her from her problems, and a confrontation with her estranged mother. As she meditates on the destructive dysfunction of her family, she slits her father's throat and begins her muddled, chaotic, involuntary journey into her subconscious. The book, however, opens as legend-like so many myths, a passionate patricide leads to an impossible quest-and it is important to remember this classic grounding because as the story continues, it dives into sensuous, often outrageous obscurity.Īn unnamed protagonist bombs herself with her prideful professor-father's invention, the "kind bomb." The pill will not kill, but instead opens up the mind to recreate memories by turning the psyche into a sort of bomb site.
Poet Reb Livingston's debut novel, appropriately titled Bombyonder, explores this confusing realm in lyrical prose that, while often overwhelming and disgusting, is searing and unforgettable.īombyonder is a disjointed tale made up of fragments: diary entries, memories, text messages, letters, forums from the future, and other indirect narrative forms. It is a subconscious space of both apocalyptic absurdity and astonishing lucidity, where zombie sex jokes can morph into profound commentaries on social media, and vague memories hilariously allude to Ancient Greek literary characters.
It smells of decaying flesh, drips with bodily fluids, and brims with the anger of a Medusa. Not exactly a physical location, but more than a passing thought, Bombyonder echoes poetry of mythic proportions. Beyond logic and linear thinking, manners and order, humor and horror, there is Bombyonder.
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