Beneath the Empire of the Birds

by Carl Watson

Fiction. Carl Watson applies his eye and hand via pathos, paranoia and chaos to the over-urban world of Chicago's Uptown district, his slices of life housed under such excited mental categories as "Descenders to the Skin Cage," "The Body Like an Arrow on a Nomad Map," "Swirling Birds In the Mind is a Sign of Madness," "Escape from the Totalitarian State of Flight," "They Could Be Cannibals." Acclaimed artist Joe Coleman's paintings dot Watson's pages like interim chapters, each its own explicit but encrypted sad tale. As Watson notes, "Sometimes an event is interpreted as 'news' and re-fed into the system forming a feedback loop that ramifies its every minute aspect until it actually posits a threat that overwhelms so-called reality or 'sense'" Watson's Uptowners reside in a gray zone outside the margin of The News, but they still make their own noise--a murmur not a whimper.

Genres: Short Stories

Paperback

First published October 1, 1997

Reviews

[Eddie Watkins · Rating 4 out of 5]

A book of stories by a guy who drags your brain through more vomit and spooge and despair and one-eyed public masturbators than almost anyone I know. In his world everything is broken and fallen and half or fully decayed, and the people are desperate and alone but still trying to connect, however fugitively. But the rare thing about him is that he does it with such penetrating intelligence, unique literary style, verve, and complete authenticity. Somehow he's in the shit yet removed enough to write about it.

I don't know why such things are the only things at certain times that can brighten my world, but it could be the pathos and compassion and heightened attention to all the forgotten and neglected details of this world. It brings me closer to so many things so tragically overlooked.

Too bad there's no image associated with this listing because the cover is adorned with a Joe Coleman painting - a perfect pairing with the text.

[Jennifer Blowdryer · Rating 5 out of 5]

Carl Watson's sentences are stunners, lots of them so poetic and articulate they stand alone. Didn't read this book for a long time because I was afraid of getting 'thinky pain', as Mark Maron puts it - awed by this writer all over again, funny at times, crazily knowledgable. Don't even try to compete, playahs!

[John Matthews · Rating 4 out of 5]

In brief, this is a collection of short stories and essays that has the appearance of a novel. You could argue it is a mosaic and the parts make up a novel since all concern the downtrodden Uptown area of Chicago, but the characters in Beneath the Empire of the Birds do not cross the boundaries of their designated pages. These desperate people do not know one another and they come and go like gnats hovering over a puddle of sweet wine.

Regardless of what form you want to ascribe this book, in many ways it is a sort of scripture or lewd graffiti that comes at you with all the subtlety of a knife-wielding mental patient. Detailing a world of degenerate, desperate, one syllable-named men who are imprisoned by their destitution and bad luck, Watson decodes the madness of Uptown, an area populated with drunks, crazies, pimps, murderers, wife-beaters, slum lords, junkies, prostitutes and stray cats.

The sum effect of these stories is a kind of sick, psychedelic animation, a cartoon-like world of defeatist bum imagery.

Watson hovers above this world, not quite inhabiting it himself. He’s like a reporter whose beat is the barroom, the men’s hotel, the alleyway and soup kitchen. He is both witness to and promoter of the chaos around him, much like the TV news. He describes this life cycle where the news itself seems to drive men to go out to “commit the news”, which of course, results in more coverage and more madness.

Many will not enjoy this ride. There is little in the way of plot or dialog here, and the narratives tend to go sideways unexpectedly quite often, like thought patterns and revelations of an esteemed sociologist who has ingested way too much LSD. The nervous, fidgety nature of many of these tales will be a turn off to some. But even when the meaning becomes too personal, too impenetrable, there is value. Inside even the most fevered story, there is powerful poetry.

And sticking with the book to the end has its payoffs. “The Wickerman” is particularly engaging. And the final, titular essay “Beneath the Empire of the Birds” is also incredible.

You can see shades of Burroughs, Henry Miller, Robert Crumb and Knut Hamsun in Watson’s accomplished work. You will notice I didn’t mention Bukowski. Next to Watson, Bukowski seems too congenial, too soft and safe.

If you have a taste and tolerance for fiction that isn’t afraid to lift up the rock and expose the ugly side of life and mine its nutrients, you will find exceptional writing that, in its lucid moments, delivers the divine.

[Brie · Rating 2 out of 5]

A whole series of pretty odd and grotesque stories is probably not my favorite way to spend my time. However, I have to say that the artistic underlying message seemed pretty interesting. Then again, I'm taking a class where I have this book explained to me. If I was not taking Contemporary Fiction, I would not read this book; plain and simple. To those artsy folks out their: God speed if you want to try it.

[Hundeschlitten · Rating 4 out of 5]

I read this as a chapbook way back in the day. I loved it at the time, the poetry mascarading as prose, writing about the down and out in Uptown, which Watson imagined as a land "beneath the Empire of the Birds." I was waxing about it tonight over a bottle of wine with my lovely wife and wondered, "Whatever happened to this guy?"

[Erik · Rating 5 out of 5]

One of the few postmodern books that I think is enjoyable to read outside of group discussion. Very very cleverly written with all the intellectualism of a post-modern book but with characters and narratives and writing that is still pleasurable to read.

Some of the stories are exceedingly grotesque, so be warned if you pick this up.

[Theo · Rating 4 out of 5]

Just reread my original chapbook of these stories. Paid $4 for it in 1992. Worthwhile grinding, rusted frame car ride through Chicago's oilier neighbs. I enjoyed it again. JIMBO is my fav.