Jean-Paul’s Rating: 2/5 stars
Imagine you are using drugs. These drugs make you hallucinate a little bit. They also take the ordered sections of your brain and shuffle them together just once, but you’re not really very good at shuffling either so the last parts just kind of get tucked down at the bottom of the deck. Then, suddenly, there is a pen in your hand and a stack of paper in front of you. You start writing. That is the best description I can give behind the genesis of Anna Tambour’s “Crandolin”.
The book starts out in what can only be described as micro-chapters. It flits and darts from place to place and time to time and person to person with so few words separating the chapters that you don’t know whether you’re coming or going and you don’t have a clue what the characters mean to each other or where or when they are. It’s dizzying to the point that you stop caring. Eventually, the book coalesces into something more tangible and you get a solid feeling for who is where and when, but there is still a disjointedness because it’s never quite clear who or what is being pursued or even if there is any point to the story at all.
This may be one of those books that you appreciate more when you read it a second time. You know, if you’re an English major. But since I’m here for you, the common bookworm, and not those ivory tower prigs, maybe if I explain the story a bit you’ll enjoy it a little more than I did.
There’s this guy named Nick Kippax. You might call him an epicurean. Always searching for new and exciting flavors and recipes. One day, he finds this cookbook with a recipe on how to cook a crandolin. Crandolins totally don’t exist. On the page of that recipe is a mysterious stain. Maybe it’s a stain from the last time someone cooked the recipe. Why not taste it? Thus Nick Kippax finds himself blown into tiny pieces and spread across time and space. One piece finds him/itself as a Gorbachevian spot on the face of a young woman who works on a train in Russia with a bunch of people who are in love with her. Another piece finds him/itself in some jars of honey belonging to the best honey maker in the world which a man who makes sweets envies and kidnaps. Another is in a birds nest somewhere? Maybe another is in a virgin’s pubic hair that some weirdo wants to make a mustache out of, I think? There’s also this old dude who isn’t real, but is, and goes around planting factual stories in writers’ minds and is going senile. There’s also this woman who isn’t real, but is, and goes around planting fanciful stories in writers’ minds and is looking for something. There’s this bunch of dudes questing for a girl locked in a tower by her father who has just died. A bunch of stuff happens to them. The end.
Did I make you want to read the book? No? What if I told you there was lots of sex in it? There isn’t, but would that change your mind? I have failed as a book salesman.