![]() Through the marvel of her language, the book becomes a shimmering whole a miracle met like the first mirror.Bombyonder transcends any sense of “experimentation,” and occupies, essentially, its own genre. ![]() Livingston devises a pulsing, haywire logic that somehow rivets the parts to each other and the reader to the page. But Bombyonder is not merely a scathing, slicingly funny assemblage. When you reach for your seat belt, which you will, you will come up with Medusa’s snakes in your clenched hands. Butterworth, Home Depot, Rapunzel, Facebook, Leona Helmsley and countless others in a blur of narratives, dreams, texts and diary entries. You ride in a vehicle with a thousand gears, each ratcheting the velocity upward. Bombs, masks, machinery, birds buried at the bottoms of women, emerge and recede in the blistering landscape. ![]() ![]() So begins Bombyonder, Reb Livingston’s blistering, kaleidoscopic, post-bomb-blast shrapnel-storm of a book. ![]() "Some kind of war happened at some time or another and continued for quite some time to come. Lady swallows a bomb in pill form (invented by her father), barfs up a dead bird and embarks on an excavation layered with murder, sexual politics, patriarchy, matricide and ancestral torment along with a parrot-faced cat girl, a boy on a donkey, a terrifyingly handsome lover/golem, an unconceived brother, a straight-texting friend who lives in a box inside a box and Medusa. ![]()
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