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152 pages, Paperback
First published June 3, 2025
‘Within Johnny’s chest, an organ pumps blood, fast and hard and desperate. She would hand it over to Alice, slimy and thumping. She thinks she already has.’This is a supremely fantastical exploration of futility, which bears the imprints of Armfield’s ‘Private Rites’ and ‘Salt Slow’ both, and warrants five stars from me just the same as those:
‘Johnny is reduced to trembling atoms. Bones seem to chatter and clink together. Her blood is kinetic, nerves sparking with disabling electricity, her muscles useless, rigid, for all the microscopic scurry within.’There is such remarkable brilliance in the second half of the book that I wanted to cite as flavour, but I don't want to overleap any spoilers. Suffice it to say that Johnny undergoes all the imperative suffering of the anti-hero:
‘She has never felt so weak or so small, so meaningless in the face of destructive power that is not hers. […] For the first time, she understands fragility.’Dinky, this might be; frivolous, it’s not.