gnOme describes itself as “a secret press specializing in the publication of anonymous, pseudepigraphical, and apocryphal works from the past, present, and future.” Perhaps you get the idea. (It’s an odd idea.)
Since receiving copies of its beautifully-produced Autophagiography and Cantos for the Crestfallen I’ve been meaning to pitch some gentle promotion on its behalf. The quality of these works incites such an endeavor, at the same time as their strangeness complicates it. gnOme is doing something unique, exceedingly well, but quite what that is …
This little post — already almost at an end — is written in Moganshan, amid foggy bamboo forests and clouds of mosquitoes. It aspires to nothing beyond the level of a promissory note (or modest strike against procrastination). Bitten hard by the Autophagiography‘s “spiral ouroboros” even as concentration is dissipated among its narrative peculiarities, cultural allusions, codes, and ceaseless diversions, I will try to find a way to talk about it on this blog (soon).
And everything is ‘accelerated’ (from the view of what cannot grasp it) into the infinite speed of silence, where all things become accomplished in this nothing, down to the tiniest detail, even all our specific projects, our private dreams. Everything. Next to which poetry hasn’t been invented yet.
(It is hard for me to pretend, to myself, that I do not know the name of this author. Yet, since I am not professionally obliged to perform public detective work, it is easy to let this not matter.)
ADDED: “This author” –> these authors, and now with almost intolerable, hilarious lucidity.