Bøker av Michael McAloran

In 'scenes from nowhere', written in 2011, we see the foundation of McAloran's oeuvre beginning to take shape . "This old hulk of bone, meat, this rind... [will] fool the absence into thinking there was ever anything" is a recurring theme through his work, anything, that is, except language to insist on the despair of there never being anything. Beckett-like he says "the growing is the dying", the world is a "trunk full of rats", an "abattoir where beasts hang with their throats cut..." 'scenes' , however, unlike McAloran's later works, and despite, or maybe because of his despair with the corporeal, does take a narrative turn, albeit, as one would expect, towards the dark side. The turn, namely centres round his finding a young woman, badly beaten by professional hookers whose patch she'd strayed onto, late one night, lying on the street. He carries her to his room, where he cares for her with a bath and whiskey. His claim "I'll go on with it, without purpose", is undermined when duty insists on caring for a fellow human, which he does with purpose, maybe love.'scenes' is an ideal introduction to McAloran's work. It contradicts his hopelessness in existence, where "dreams are for lesser men", through his intuitive will to care that is narrated in a moving and compelling passage of the work that may surprise his followers. 'scenes' is necessary reading for those who want an introduction to his later works, and for those who have read them but need to know of their genesis.Dr. Arthur Broomfield.

The literary equivalent of holding a diamond in your hand and watching it crumble to dust. Powerful and essential. An antidote to the quick-fix X-Factor generation.

""Michael Mc Aloran's new collection is a series of stunning prose poetry novellas that foreclose on the debt where the lesion was, the small scars in the places where meaning was torn from the broken body. The broken bodies are left to console themselves with alcohol, ejaculation, damaged words. Names do not apply to temporary fragmented things & love is a wound; wherever consolation is, it is not to be found among humans. It is not made of words. Get this book, it is not there to console you for anything or to render the night less murderous. There is no catharsis here, just the naked asshole of a dead god nailed spreadeagled across the sky to remind you of the nothing. & that is the only valid purpose of art.""--David McLean