I would make a terrible reviewer of … anything. I lack a critical faculty. Which is fine with me, of course: I don’t need one; I only want to write fiction.

But over the years, struck by a certain mood—the same one perhaps that drove Ishmael to knock hats from heads—I have posted a few reviews at Amazon. (I mean that: three or four tops!) And at times that makes me a little nervous because I don’t entirely trust Amazon. It seems to me that one might wake up one day to discover that Amazon has revamped its customer review policy to exclude all reviews by those whose first name begins with the letter “Y.” It could happen.

So I am going to post those reviews here, what with this nifty blogging software I’m now using. Call it a test drive. I want to hear just how sweetly this Ferrari purrs. Bear in mind that these are not meant to be rigorous; they’re just little bundles of thoughts and feelings about a particular book.

So maybe I’ll post one a day? Every other day? Not sure yet, but here’s the first one:

Bacacay

by Witold Gombrowicz

tr. Bill Johnston

pub. Archipelago Books

Review posted May 23, 2011, 5 stars

Review title: A true pleasure

This book is a delight, both in the writing and the construction.

The materials are of a high quality, the text is crisp and pleasingly set with enough white space that your thumb won’t interfere with your reading (even if you’re the kind of reader who holds the book with one hand, a procedure I’d recommend in this case only to large-handed readers, as the dimensions might prove unwieldy to those with short fingers). There are even French flaps, if that is something that excites you.

Gombrowicz is never profound in these stories, indeed turns the idea of insight on its head, and that is precisely what makes this collection so adorable! The situations are absurd, the silliness protracted. Just when you think a story has gone off the rails, you discover that really the author has created a whole new set of rails and you simply didn’t notice. If you enjoy Rimbaud or Douglas Adams, I think you’ll find yourself right at home in these pages.

Bill Johnston’s work of translation is glorious. I don’t know Polish, so I can’t judge the accuracy of the English version, but the style is superb and audacious and fits the content impeccably, which to me indicates a genuine synergy with the original author.

I’ll close this review with a quotation typical of the style (from “A Premeditated Crime”):

     The deceased lay on the bed—just as he had died—the only thing they had done was to turn him on his back. His livid, swollen face betokened death by asphyxiation, as was usual in the case of heart attacks.

     “Asphyxiated,” I murmured, though I could clearly see it was a heart attack.

     “It was his heart, his heart, sir … He died because of his heart.”

     “Oh, the heart can sometimes asphyxiate … It can,” I said lugubriously. She was still standing and waiting—and so I crossed myself, said a prayer, and then (she was still standing there) I said quietly:

     “Such noble features!”

     Her hands were shaking so much that I decided I ought to kiss them again …