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A review by screamdogreads
Skin Lane by Neil Bartlett
4.5
He knows that the boy is dead (that's another phrase that comes to mind, dead weight, he thinks he understands it now.) but nonetheless he wants to hold him tight; to hold him tight and rock him back and forth and whisper gently in his ear I've got you. I've got you. That's it; I've got you; shh.
How does anyone begin to convey coherent thoughts about a novel that strips their soul bare like this? How is it possible to express the intensity with which Skin Lane leaves you exposed and vulnerable? A novel crafted as wonderfully as this succeeds in isolating and wrecking the hearts of its readership. Desolation, desire, and loneliness explode from the pages of this book in a powerful and sickening kaleidoscopic vibrancy.
What an incredible piece of literature this is, not only is it an honor to experience something so fantastic, it's frankly amazing that it even exists. By far, this may be one of the most harrowing and moving pieces of fiction I've read all year. Despite what an uncomfortable experience it is, to feel such vulnerability within a story, it's still a staggeringly lovely tale. Ultimately, this story is about denial, and the soul-shattering consequences of unrequited love, but, it's also, so much more...
Bartlett has created a work of art here. The enigmatic and mysterious Mr F is the star of our story, and the narrator, while not quite unreliable, cleverly holds over our heads how complicit we are in our own manipulation. It's a fragile and obsessive thing, this story, intimate and lurid and lacking in a tidy resolution. Luscious and erotic undertones shimmer throughout this story, making it a deeply desirable thing, like a secret guarded close to the heart. It's a rare find, this one, a gem laying on a beach of stones, a lump of gold in a river of coal.
How does anyone begin to convey coherent thoughts about a novel that strips their soul bare like this? How is it possible to express the intensity with which Skin Lane leaves you exposed and vulnerable? A novel crafted as wonderfully as this succeeds in isolating and wrecking the hearts of its readership. Desolation, desire, and loneliness explode from the pages of this book in a powerful and sickening kaleidoscopic vibrancy.
What an incredible piece of literature this is, not only is it an honor to experience something so fantastic, it's frankly amazing that it even exists. By far, this may be one of the most harrowing and moving pieces of fiction I've read all year. Despite what an uncomfortable experience it is, to feel such vulnerability within a story, it's still a staggeringly lovely tale. Ultimately, this story is about denial, and the soul-shattering consequences of unrequited love, but, it's also, so much more...
Bartlett has created a work of art here. The enigmatic and mysterious Mr F is the star of our story, and the narrator, while not quite unreliable, cleverly holds over our heads how complicit we are in our own manipulation. It's a fragile and obsessive thing, this story, intimate and lurid and lacking in a tidy resolution. Luscious and erotic undertones shimmer throughout this story, making it a deeply desirable thing, like a secret guarded close to the heart. It's a rare find, this one, a gem laying on a beach of stones, a lump of gold in a river of coal.
"People think that it is in the tangle of bodies, in the actual congress, that one person invades another and takes possession of them; that it is on the bed that we give ourselves up. Well it is true that there is a surrender there that is unlike any other, but the real time they get under your skin is when you spend these hours alone preparing for them; imagining them. The hours where you find yourself wondering if these sheets would be too hot with two people under them. Or when you lie there on your back with both eyes open, as Mr F lies now, in the desperate early hours of that Monday morning, wishing that your nightmare would come back and plague you, just so that you can see your beloved one last time."
Skin Lane is touching in ways I'd never imagined when I picked it up, it's so deeply affecting in its own, unique manner. And, perhaps, latching on to the idea of beauty is too easy when reading this devastating story. I think that's the magic of it though, we think so much of beauty because in this tale, Beauty awaits the devouring by Beast.
When a man is solitary, people always want an explanation, don't they - have you noticed that? Especially if he ends up doing something notable, committing a crime for instance, or even just surviving to a very old age. At some point in the conversation, someone always says, I wonder what made him that way?