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Lucas simultaneously acknowledges and preserves the mystery of his fluctuating appearance, vaguely referenced political ambitions, and apartment building, which may or may not have existed in this reality or never existed at all. Because of this, the story ends in a note of sustained tension that plays through the last line.

Fine wordcrafting by Howard.

And there is the intriguing double twist: regime change and the questioning of whether Lucas' greatest architectural achievement (so far) ever even existed. Eerie brought on by weird. Very curious to see how this story finishes.

What is happening to Luca? Is he physically ill or mentally disturbed or in the middle of an existential crisis or something else? The change in him seems sudden and I dont know what to make of it.

It's amazing what a little phrase uttered by a character can don o your perception of them. The phrase I am referring to: "How much can keep on being subtracted?"

There's more weight to this than that carried by the simple words. Much more.

Christian Luca is a complicated character made even more complex by the multiple viewpoints from which Howard examines him, not the least of which is Luca's own view of himself.

As usual, Howard's descriptive prose is evocative and exacting.

If I was ever to get an entire poem tattooed on my back, it might just be "Selbstschau" (translated "Self-Reflection"), done in gothic script, of course. It's a nicer-person's "Invictus". Another one I will have to quote in full in my review.

"Joy of Life" will have to be quoted in full. In English. It's not as good as it is in the original German (none of these poems are better translated), but it's still very good.

Oppressive Light

Two trees stand in the snow,
the sky, tired of light,
moves home, and nothing else
but gloom close by.

And behind the trees
dark houses tower up.
Now you hear something said,
now dogs begin to bay.

And the dear, round lamp-
moon appears in the house.
And the light goes out again,
as a wound yawns open.

How small life is here
and how big nothingness.

[continues: will quote in review in full]

"A Little Landscape" is my favorite so far. Sinister!

"Fear" is a very telling (and very early) poem reflecting the entrenchment of anxiety that would continually afflict Walser.

Another guess as to which page I am actually on. I have no clue, at the moment. I'll know I'm at the end, when I'm at the end. Like life. And death.

I'm purely guessing at my page count because this book doesn't have the pages numbered. That fact alone hints at the care that was taken to get this book right. Death needs no page numbers.

When the time arrives, hopefully soon, to review this book, my review will not read like a review at all, and yet, it will be the only possibly way that I could review this book. When you see it, those who know . . . will know.

I sense a Banishment ritual in the words "It's all very regal". Whether intended or not, that is what I see in this phrase, given the context.

Amidst all the obfuscation there is a clarity to Murphy's work. I am glad that I am unable to explain that clarity. It's a "color" of sorts that imbues his work - playful, bright, but at the same time, regal, dignified. It is also a space, a room, perhaps painted with subterfuge and scattered with idols of trickster gods. I cannot describe this to you as it is my space alone, though the author has invited me to in.