Darkness has it’s own urgency, and the moment is lost forever. The threat of melodrama is only ever a hint away from the surface, and it takes all my skill and discipline (which I lack in woeful quantities) to not let it erupt. Is it Salome’s brutality, the sight of my own blood oozing, viscous, thick, dark, magnetic, hypnotic, a LSD inducing combination of sugar, Earl Grey and Darjeeling throughout the day, hormones or Anthony Capella? Perhaps, all of the above.
I am unsure of my reaction to Anthony Capella. I’m repelled as much as I’m attracted to his style. Unable to put it down. Unable to complete it. I’m enthralled. The precision, beauty and easy fluidity of his words suck me into his world, the crude sexuality a jarring contrast. His visceral portrait of the gouging of the forest repels me, and I have to shut the book, unable to stomach the destruction. The eternal paradox, in a combination not unlike the various flavours of his coffee. It is extreme, incongruous yet oddly real. Discordant yet belonging. It upsets the balance, leaves me ambivalent, torn between the feral, the spiritual and the real. I retreat to the more comfortable world of Amit Chaudhuri, but it leaves me unsatisfied, mind whirring, the scent of blood and Africa in my nostrils. I want to sink my teeth into flesh, gouge it, taste the blood.
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