Randomness and broken language fill this book.
The blurb says "A great painter lies on his deathbed. Max Porter translates into seven extraordinary written pictures the explosive final workings of the artist's mind"
I'm afraid I didn't get any particular mind pictures from this. I couldn't get any type of story. As a portrait of a broken mind, I suppose it works.
it's very very short. if it had been any longer I'm not sure I could gave persisted with it.
After the amazing book that was Lanny, to read this is a bitter disappointment. Maybe it is my ignorance on display here. there were a couple of flashes of narrative but they were all too quickly buried in the utter randomness of word choice.
Not for me this time. I can honestly say, if this was the first Max Porter I read, I would never read another.
One good thing that's come about from this is that I did look up Francis Bacon's artwork and some of it is rather extraordinary. I am tempted to buy a print of one of his pictures for my living room.
I suppose it does marry up to Bacon's art style - the visceral and jusp plain weird mixed in together.
However as a reading experience, nope.
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