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3.73 AVERAGE
3.73 AVERAGE
This collection is under 200 pages, and contains approximately 20 stories. It is a comparatively thin book, too, unassumingly gray-spined on the shelf, with just a tinge of red at the top. The color is fitting, as each one of these stories are grimy, tragic little knives, bound to leave an infection long after the slice.
The spine might draw your attention—not because of the colors, but because of the title, which is a jarring, arresting accusation:
All We Want is Everything
The "we" is inclusive. It includes you, the potential reader. It includes the author. You feel a sense of welcoming, almost, from the title. But at the same time, your mind rebels. There's an intrinsic sort of conflict there. How can "we" ever have "everything"? Inevitably, someone will be left with nothing.
It's in this way that the collection proceeds: with a promise, and a threat.
To speak of the writing: Sullivan's prose is crystalline. He conveys stark imagery that sears the mind's eye, depicting dire landscapes of trauma and loss. The collection almost reads like a pile of police-evidence photographs, scattered on the floor. Bodies and limbs litter the pages. Blood spatters the walls. Other liquids go so far as to blanket an entire town and eat away at its infrastructure.
If I had one complaint, I would say that I wanted more stories from speculative angles. The strongest of these was "Cloud," which uses an eerie, not-impossible event that frames the lives of the poor saps that inhabit it, giving added weight and depth to their struggles. Many of these stories were vivid, Carver-esque excerpts that, when read all at once, could put a serious damper on your day: they're that immersive. There are very few spots of humor, and when they arrive, they are delivered wryly, through clenched teeth.
A few of these really stood out to me, and will linger, I suspect. "Pumpkinheads," a vicious, sad story about the lives of those who work in limb-threatening industries, has such a satisfying and unsuspected (yet wholly inevitable) ending that I almost dropped the book. "The Lesser Half of Sir John A. MacDonald" is about a man whose body is coming apart due to drugs and poverty, using an extended metaphor of maps and history/politics to do it. Floored me how skillfully Sullivan was able to thread the needle on this one: the portrait of Greg the Golden Goose will stay with me for a LONG time. "Wrestling With Jacob" was another stunning entry of anger and threat: I loved the Biblical and modern-day references, and the constant internal tension within the story kept me turning pages quickly despite the flood of monologue/demagoguery coming from the second character. It was a battering ram of a story, and I felt uniquely claustrophobic while reading it.
I find myself wanting to speak on every story, as every time I think of one, I think of another. "In a Car in a River Outside of Peoria, Illinois," a unique portrait and excerpt of a man's life near to the end, a stunning portrayal of what it means to lie and to be a hypocrite, of punishment and penance, all framed by Sullivan's arresting prose. "Hatchetman," a quick study of what it means to be the child of Juggalos (lifetime Insane Clown Posse fans), another instant favorite. "Simcoe Furriers," which ends with one of the most stunning images I've read in a very long time, yet another.
There's a sense of floating in these stories, too, despite their heaviness, like treading water when you know you're gonna drown anyway. Sullivan hovers over these lives so briefly, and the ensuing flash of his camera freezes them in place. Their eyes are wide and feral, startled by the interruption, suspicious of the intent of the cameraman, and yet he's gone already, become invisible, and they resume their tragic lives.
It's not until after I finished the final story, "Kingston Road," that I let out the breath I'd been holding for the weeks while I'd been reading. I cannot recommend this collection without hesitation, but if you're the kind of person, like me, who enjoys the feeling of dread and can marvel at the syntactic beauty of a phrase, you'll find a treasure trove of that here. It is a lot to consume, despite its brevity, and rather than escape from the chaos of life (as so many readers wish to do, and I wish them well), Sullivan burrows deeper into it, and dares to record what he sees.
For that, the author has my immense respect. It takes a lot of steel in one's nerves to be able to create something as unflinchingly brutal and honest as these stories. It takes a lot of long nights, staring into the abyss...and we all know what happens when someone does that.
If you're curious, you can find a slice of that feeling for yourself, here, in these pages.
The spine might draw your attention—not because of the colors, but because of the title, which is a jarring, arresting accusation:
All We Want is Everything
The "we" is inclusive. It includes you, the potential reader. It includes the author. You feel a sense of welcoming, almost, from the title. But at the same time, your mind rebels. There's an intrinsic sort of conflict there. How can "we" ever have "everything"? Inevitably, someone will be left with nothing.
It's in this way that the collection proceeds: with a promise, and a threat.
To speak of the writing: Sullivan's prose is crystalline. He conveys stark imagery that sears the mind's eye, depicting dire landscapes of trauma and loss. The collection almost reads like a pile of police-evidence photographs, scattered on the floor. Bodies and limbs litter the pages. Blood spatters the walls. Other liquids go so far as to blanket an entire town and eat away at its infrastructure.
If I had one complaint, I would say that I wanted more stories from speculative angles. The strongest of these was "Cloud," which uses an eerie, not-impossible event that frames the lives of the poor saps that inhabit it, giving added weight and depth to their struggles. Many of these stories were vivid, Carver-esque excerpts that, when read all at once, could put a serious damper on your day: they're that immersive. There are very few spots of humor, and when they arrive, they are delivered wryly, through clenched teeth.
A few of these really stood out to me, and will linger, I suspect. "Pumpkinheads," a vicious, sad story about the lives of those who work in limb-threatening industries, has such a satisfying and unsuspected (yet wholly inevitable) ending that I almost dropped the book. "The Lesser Half of Sir John A. MacDonald" is about a man whose body is coming apart due to drugs and poverty, using an extended metaphor of maps and history/politics to do it. Floored me how skillfully Sullivan was able to thread the needle on this one: the portrait of Greg the Golden Goose will stay with me for a LONG time. "Wrestling With Jacob" was another stunning entry of anger and threat: I loved the Biblical and modern-day references, and the constant internal tension within the story kept me turning pages quickly despite the flood of monologue/demagoguery coming from the second character. It was a battering ram of a story, and I felt uniquely claustrophobic while reading it.
I find myself wanting to speak on every story, as every time I think of one, I think of another. "In a Car in a River Outside of Peoria, Illinois," a unique portrait and excerpt of a man's life near to the end, a stunning portrayal of what it means to lie and to be a hypocrite, of punishment and penance, all framed by Sullivan's arresting prose. "Hatchetman," a quick study of what it means to be the child of Juggalos (lifetime Insane Clown Posse fans), another instant favorite. "Simcoe Furriers," which ends with one of the most stunning images I've read in a very long time, yet another.
There's a sense of floating in these stories, too, despite their heaviness, like treading water when you know you're gonna drown anyway. Sullivan hovers over these lives so briefly, and the ensuing flash of his camera freezes them in place. Their eyes are wide and feral, startled by the interruption, suspicious of the intent of the cameraman, and yet he's gone already, become invisible, and they resume their tragic lives.
It's not until after I finished the final story, "Kingston Road," that I let out the breath I'd been holding for the weeks while I'd been reading. I cannot recommend this collection without hesitation, but if you're the kind of person, like me, who enjoys the feeling of dread and can marvel at the syntactic beauty of a phrase, you'll find a treasure trove of that here. It is a lot to consume, despite its brevity, and rather than escape from the chaos of life (as so many readers wish to do, and I wish them well), Sullivan burrows deeper into it, and dares to record what he sees.
For that, the author has my immense respect. It takes a lot of steel in one's nerves to be able to create something as unflinchingly brutal and honest as these stories. It takes a lot of long nights, staring into the abyss...and we all know what happens when someone does that.
If you're curious, you can find a slice of that feeling for yourself, here, in these pages.
This was a fantastic collection of short stories. My favorite being Pumpkinhead. Each story drew me in and kept me interested. They were all slightly on the side of disturbed and it was fascinating. I was first introduced to this author in my schools literary publication when I read his story Towers. Andrew Sullivan is really an excellent writer and I can't wait to read more of his work.