Archive for books

The Technological Plane

Posted in Dispatches with tags , , , , , on March 16, 2018 by Magadh

baud1“The technological plane is an abstraction: in ordinary life we are practically unconscious of the technological reality of objects. Yet this abstraction is profoundly real: it is what governs all radical transformations of our environment. It is even – and I do not mean this in any paradoxical sense – the most concrete aspect of the object, for technological development is synonymous with objective structural evolution. In the strictest sense, what happens to the object in the technological sphere is essential, whereas what happens to it in the psychological or sociological sphere of needs and practices is inessential. The discourse of psychology or sociology continually refers us to the object as apprehended at a more consistent level, a level unrelated to any individual or collective discourse, namely the supposed level of technological language. It is starting from this language, from this consistency of the technical model, that we can reach an understanding of what happens to objects by virtue of their being produced and consumed, possessed and personalized.”

Baudrillard, The System of Objects, 3

Review of Destruction: Text I

Posted in Reviews with tags , , on September 21, 2017 by Magadh

Oliver Sheppard, Destruction: Text I (Dallas, TX: Ikonograph Press, 2017)


destructionIt takes guts to write and publish a book of poetry at this point in the history of the world. This has little to do with Adorno’s comment about the barbarism of writing poetry in the wake of Auschwitz (I think he was talking about lyric poetry and in any case he backed off it later). No, the real problem with pursuing the poetic form at the current moment is the fundamental absurdity of the modern. Historically, poetry has involved the creative use of language to write with greater depth (or with greater precision) than that available in the medium of prose. In the spectacular society in which we live the depths beneath the surface have evaporated and precision, more often than not, is simply a matter of giving the right name to the right specter.


Oliver Sheppard’s Destruction: Text I strives mightily against the bonds of the age. The pieces in this volume do not, unlike so many exemplars of modern poetry, exhaust their energies in parsing the minutiae of human internality. Sheppard’s writings are distinctly external in their focus, ranging widely from the mechanized battlefields of the Second World War’s Eastern Front to the event horizons of collapsing stars. This may strike one a thinking big in a way that strains the bonds of coherent conception, but Sheppard’s pieces are united in the consistency of a dark atmosphere that creates a space for the examination of human and trans- (or perhaps super-) human experience.


These pieces are, so far as I am aware, something of a change of mode for Sheppard. I will offer as a caveat that we know each other in that via-the-internet sort of way that is common for people whose subcultural attachments overlap. I can’t remember whether his work first came to my attention because he published at (which I am also a contributor) or whether I only found out about that later. But I do know a few verifiable facts. Oliver Sheppard is simply the most passionate fan Killing Joke that I have ever met. He also follows death rock with the same sort of obsessive passion that I have for European hardcore. Where I would be talking about Pandemonium’s Wir fahren gegen Dreck he can discourse at length about Fliehende Stürme’s An den Ufern.


Perhaps it is this virtuoso level familiarity with the obscure that first interested me in his work. In pieces for Cvlt Nation or (more occasionally) Bandcamp, Sheppard gives his readers access to a pool of knowledge that is as broad as it is deep. What seems to pull it all together is a dark, although not to say morbid, aesthetic. Given the chance, Sheppard will lead you down dark and unfamiliar paths, to moments of weird beauty not blighted by the death fixation of a lot of the figures one meets along these ways. The pieces collected in Destruction: Text I exemplify this well.


Reading Sheppard’s poetry is a little like listening to a conversation between Nietzsche and William Blake during a showing of Peckinpah’s Cross of Iron. Using a wide range of forms and cultural references, Sheppard illustrates the human condition in ways that take as much account of its absence as its presence. Thus we find early in a cycle of Second World War-themed pieces, the following:


Severe grey angles

Turretless malevolence

Squat steel gunned bulwark


It takes a certain kind of audacity to compose a cycle of haikus about war on the Eastern Front, but it is precisely this breadth of conception that lifts this collection above the mean. Sheppard seems fascinated with the human, but also with the superhuman, with the action of entities at the far ends of space or, as in his references to Persephone, descending into the underworld. In a piece entitled “Achromatic #1” Sheppard writes,


A hyperdimensional SPHERE of battleship gray

Lays some distance southwestward of its



The terms and mode of expression are stark, recalling Pound’s quotations from the letters of the vortecist sculptor Henri Gaudier-Brzeska before the latter’s death in battle in 1915. Indeed, Sheppard’s writing is redolent of the desperate modernism of the interwar period, inflected through the lens of late 20th underground culture. His mix of longer and shorter pieces and quotations from other authors (both in epigrams and longer elements) gives the feel of Hannah Höch’s collages, but with a later 20th century atmosphere in which playfulness has been replaced by an ineluctable consciousness of the gigantic and of the finitude of things.


There are moments at which it appears that the fabric of reality is coming apart at the seams, held together only tenuously by the images that mediate human social relations. Sheppard’s darkly beautiful poetry investigates the dark interstices of this system of images, looking both below and beyond to stark and often threatening realities. Often the human is absent, but it is reconstituted by reflected into this emptiness, leaving the afterimage of an unsettling universe. If there is a barbaric dimension to this writing it is a barbarism that, in a certain sense, works to recover the human.

Review: Leviathan Wakes

Posted in Reviews with tags , , , , on November 24, 2012 by Magadh

James S. A. Corey Leviathan Wakes Orbit Books (2011)

I am by no means an expert when it comes to the genre of science fiction. In my extremely nerdy youth, I read a lot of the classic authors in the field (Bradbury, Asimov, Clarke, Heinlein, etc.). In college went through a phase of intense interest in Walter Jon Williams, and later I read a lot of the works of William Gibson, but I certainly don’t have the breadth of experience to qualify as anything approaching an expert.

Having disavowed any qualification to talk knowledgably about the subject, I thought I might talk a bit about James S. A. Corey’s Leviathan Rises. Corey’s book is the first in a series (of which the second, Caliban’s War, has recently been published). I first picked up this book because of a blurb on the cover from George R. R. Martin which read, “It’s been too long since we had a really kickass space opera.” Although I am in no position to evaluate the periodicities of the arrival of kickass space operas, I will say that this was intriguing to me. My relationship to the works of George R. R. Martin careens between enjoyment and intense irritation. I’ve taken the time (and time it certainly took) to read the first four volumes of the Song of Ice and Fire series. There’s a lot about it that I enjoy, and it does keep you stoked up with things to read. On the other hand, Martin has a penchant for including rather prurient details that leave me feeling kind of dirty. I understand that he wants to write swords and sorcery books for adults, and I’m not unsympathetic to this goal. I will say that J.R.R. Tolkien, who is for me that definitive artist in the field, managed to get through 2000+ pages without mentioning anyone’s clitoris, and I certainly don’t feel that this constitutes an excess of prudishness. Much as I have gotten a lot of enjoyment from Martin’s books, there are things written in them that I think I was too young to read.

To return to the topic at hand, I will admit that Martin’s remark piqued my interest. I’d recently reread Walter Jon Williams’s The Voice of the Whirlwind, and that had reawakened my interest in this sort of thing. I nonetheless embarked on Corey’s book with a bit of trepidation. I have trouble abandoning books, and Corey’s (which comprises more than 650 pages) involved a considerable investment of time.

I am pleased to report that it was time well spent. Leviathan Wakes has two major things going for it: it is well-plotted and the dialog is suitably hardboiled without descending into the realms of sophomoric cheese. Corey’s backdrop is a future in which corporate and planetary political entities are intermingled and comprise intense struggles for power and profit. His main characters, the XO of an interplanetary ice freighter and an ex corporate cop from an outer planet colony, are well crafted and believable. Corey does an excellent job of creating plausible motivational structures that keep that characters interacting in complex ways. Like Martin, Corey employs the narrative device of moving the point of view back and forth between the main characters (in Corey’s case just the two main ones instead of the ten or twelve that Martin lets us in on), and this creates interesting effects and the reader jumps back and forth between the different internal monologs.

The larger plot is compelling and Corey effectively unfolds his idea without the excess of foreshadowing that might tip the reader off too early. There is a certain similarity to Neal Stephenson’s Snow Crash, particularly in terms of the larger scope of the plot. Corey does not quite have the sharp, slashing style that characterized Stephenson’s pre-Cryptonomicon novels, but his prose a slightly richer and his capacity for crafting a satisfying ending (even given that this is meant to be the first novel in a series) is, to my mind, superior to that of Stephenson.

Corey is a writer with a lot of promise. His novel is a model of pacing and noir-tinged dialog. His next installment, Caliban’s War, was published this summer and, if this is anything to go by, is worth the time it will take you to read 600 pages.