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Book: Headless
Written by Benjamin Weissman (Akashic Books)
Reviewed by Erick Mertz
The second installment in cult novelist Dennis Cooper's "Little House On the Bowery" series is a collection of shorts by Benjamin Weissman entitled Headless.
OK, the name Headless might be a misnomer for this one - something like Hyperhead or Headcracked would be far more accurate. Weissman's characters are batty and violent, sexually charged and driven far beyond such meat-and-potato diversions as missionary sex and plot driven, boy/girl porn. The shy, curious waiter in "Enchanted Forest" is driven to weak knees and vile imaginations by the propositions of a prancing lumberjack fairy who describes in detail a world of woody woodsman. When he's invited to come away, he's practically prancing as well. In "Marnie" the narrator confesses in his opening line: "The first time I saw Marnie naked, she was lying on her back in an ambulance while two paramedics cut her yellow Burton shell off her torso." It is a shockingly shallow, callous look at a friend in dire need akin to Elaine from Seinfeld stopping for candy when notified that her date was taken to the hospital. Quite clearly Weissman is more comfortable with hyper sexual, self-interested characters, those whose preoccupations supercede empathy and compassion.
But that isn't to say that Weissman's characters aren't interesting - they're downright fascinating in stretches. The collection's first tale, "Hitler Ski Story," plays Jewish neuroses off on the banality of skiing with perfect execution; the same with "Bloodthirsty Man," a surreal examination of a lifetime lived in violence. The intent of Weissman's fiction isn't to tell linear stories; instead his style might be described as character driven still life on a ski slope.
For all of the conflicting feeling impressed by Weissman, his collection is certainly one of the most unique reads to be found on your bookstore shelves. He is the author of the novel Dear Dead Person, and no surprise, he is a veteran art and skiing writer. His wit, although quickly predictable in its sexual depravity and violence, is like a literary awl, brandished sharp and perfectly capable of puncturing your drawn and rueful countenance.
© 2004 - Erick Mertz