Friday, March 23, 2018

A Spy In The Panopticon – Damian Murphy

A Spy In The Panopticon – Damian Murphy


My previous reviews of this author HERE and this publisher HERE.
When I review this box set, my thoughts will appear in the comment stream below…

13 thoughts on “A Spy In The Panopticon – Damian Murphy”

  1. I shall start this startling box set with THE NOTARY & OTHER STORIES by Damian Murphy. I guess it is about 4 x 6 inches, with all the accustomed luxurious Mount Abraxas accoutrements. About 90 pages. My copy is numbered 12/100.

    “…as the seasons progressed backwards…”
    Apt I should read this on the cusp of March 21. This ‘apotheosis of muses’. A methodical audit trail made to look random, as the narrator plots against the plots of the Notary himself by thinking his own plots were indeed the Notary’s plots, not knowing that he was fulfilling the Notary’s strictures of ritual all the time, quite outside any such plots of either of them. Some gorgeous stuff here, “outside the dominion of history.” Think Lost Office, think surrounding forest paths and tunnel or hawling-mine. Think “the sacrament of anonymity.” Think a framed marriage.

    I first reviewed this story elsewhere in June 2017, as follows…
    “A carousing with tigers, what I shall call the most ineffable rarefied Taunting ever taunted, interspersed with Blake in quoted words and auras, the pride of the peacock, a ritual journey with keys and a so-called brothel’s rooms-within-rooms, false corridors, certain formalities and recitations, inscrutable temptresses, […] and enticements by an assumed audit trail of brothel tenants, having first been enticed there by a nefarious café-meeting’s ticketed means. An effulgent, rapturous, rhapsodic ‘candle-dreaming’ (my concept from The Last Balcony). Utterly draining, yet inspiring, too. A literary experience that can only be supplied by the forces of ExOcc. Such works only serve to create thoughts in the reader’s mind that are, by turn, to be cherished and resisted. Concupiscent as well as corpsescent. So much cerebrally and emotionally quotable to pick like fruit from this text, I have decided to pick nothing. Only your reading the whole will suffice. Left to mature even further. Original published texts, in such settings, do morph and mature forever[…]”
    My new use of bold and both ellipses.
    I am myself a spy in the panopticon?

    “It was as if the office had been transformed into a holy place.”
    This ritual of a brother and sister reminds me strongly of attending a concert in 1967 by the legendary Cornelius Cardew where, inter alios, he proceeded painstakingly to play a cello by tuning it into – or transforming – the static between stations on a transistor radio.
    Here, now, that cello has become the poems of Mallarmé and the transistor radio is still the transistor radio.

  5. “The consistency of the ink, the texture and thickness of the paper, and the shapes formed by the paragraphs entice me.”
    As here, a single luxurious document wide enough for six solid folds, thus seven columns of print each side (and two designs), dark pink lettering upon black. A ritual tale of methodical consultation between the narrator as supposed curative protagonist and a lady (the magistrate’s wife), but as with its ‘switching of solstices’, they eventually also seem to switch, with narrator and thus the reader entering some subtly moving design on her pendant, and if not the same design, similar to the effect of the incredibly gorgeous design on the most solid box that any box set of literature has been presented in, that is, this one. It is a tale with a mix of piety and salaciousness, submission and something that submission cannot submit to, involving an oriental form of chess as well as the imperative of imperium.
    Cf this author’s earlier ‘homing pigeon’ book.
    [As an aside, with unknown relevance, last night I dreamed of Boris agreeing that Putin with the World Cup was tantamount to Hitler with the 1936 Olympics, accompanied by what seemed to be a key phrase: ‘secret waters’. I did not know whether this was an occult phrase in some ritual or a reference to Arthur Ransome. With now being a spy, I was bugged by this all night.]

    “A row of pigeon holes spanned the upper section, their empty chambers bathed in shadows of deep indigo.”
    A quietly methodical observation by Sabina in a richly atmospheric conference-hotel, firstly from her room into the next, by a suddenly revealed spyhole, the room where her sister Germaine is staying, all this strangely learnt by myself as spy outside this novel, learning also that Sabina is indeed writing a novel, and that she is now taking me through a slightly deadened act of synaesthesia as a deceptively reflective tour of the hotel itself, while obliquely looking for Germaine, who, in turn, I sense to be partly inimical or detached, with now vaguely and illicitly perceived interchanges and collusive connections with some ‘Ministry’, as if Sabina as well as myself are unwelcome to be spying on them, if indeed we are. Flashed with Floaters in my eyes, I withdraw for a while, wondering whether I now follow Sabina, or she me. What has she been promised by Germaine? As much as I have been promised by this book? Whose raft, is it, of anonymity? Where are we now going? Was this real-time review’s earlier radio co-transmission illicit? And if what Sabina and I saw was a charade, what are we meant to guess about this pre-scripted game – so as to win it? Angles of knowledge as tiny collages posted by words. Or that “short, squat sticks of paraffin were arranged in pleasing asymmetries upon small saucers of white porcelain.” Just two of many wild guesses by this book’s perhaps wilder guests.

    “She would overwhelm the reader with a profusion of interweaving narratives, causing them to lose themselves within an intricate latticework of recurring motifs and themes.”
    And I admit, in hindsight, that I seem to have conflated the spyhole rooms of Sabina’s apartment contiguous to that of her sister Germaine, with the conference-hotel elsewhere which is not a conference-hotel at all but an ‘Eyes Wide Shut’ type house, but with ornate sedateness, if not sedation, and an ancient packet of cigarettes, with the cigarettes still intact, that bears one of those recurring leitmotifs. Sabina is now entrusted, it seems, with not only writing her own novel as the eponym of the one in which I read ABOUT her but also acting for the Ministry with a surveillance device in a “tiny office”, a mad-scientist type of contraptive device with panoptical ‘colour wheel.’ I feel I am experiencing Twin Peaks III alongside her. But this work is more Mallarmé-Proustian than Lynchian or Kubrickian, I guess, more Nacht than Nabokov, being my own perceptions as one of this book’s guests. And it is as if this “staged” guest (who I am) is now the work’s inferred real-time Father Brown character about to transcend its yet uninvoked and unlabelled latticework of controls (my gestalt review of all the FB stories here). And furthermore, “tangentially pertinent” is one control with the label ‘liable’. Two others being: ‘clear’ and ‘obscure’.
    “The naked keys appeared somehow indecent.”

    “A table stood in the center of the room, its surface buried beneath an intricate diagram printed out onto a dark blue sheet of unfolded paper.”
    …being a ‘blueprint’ for other artefacts in this box, bearing in mind the unfolding colours strange pastel by strange pastel and such pastels’ names. And here, amid Sabina’s manipulating of the device in the office, and what she sees as its images, such images’ encouragement for her own novel, and the looped tapes, cassette or more ambulatory head to head, reminding me of Terry Riley or LaMonte Young, leading to Glass and Reich, if not Cornelius Cardew. The fact she has not yet met her own sister in our presence, and a lapse of decorum for which I sense she needs to atone. All accreted. And the Lynchian sigil of the ‘sleeping man’. Is that me? Many of this book’s images happen to have been part of my own waking and dozing dreams since I was a child in the 1950s. But I have never been an ‘eminence’, never distinct, I am just another wheel within wheels. But all spies say that, I suppose? And prism often sounds like prison.
    “She wondered if they were being recorded in real time or if the videos had been taken from archival footage.”

  9. “I have clung
    To nothing, lov’d a nothing, nothing seen
    Or felt but a great dream!”
    ― John Keats, Endymion: A Poetic Romance
    I wonder if Sabina/Germaine is a misbegotten tapesync for Selene? Anyway, it is now ‘THE’ not ‘A’ spy in the panopticon, and my premonition of prison as prism certainly paid me dividends by the end: being fed the white stone, mouth to mouth, in a moment of deadpan passion. I served my purpose. I serve it now, by deeming this Damian by-lined novella a tapesync for Sabina’s own mighty novel, a novel that would not exist without the Damian – so utterly Sabina’s masterpiece, surely this Damian ‘blueprint’ has its own power by reflected glory? Yet, I have not yet finished this box set. One further item to be experienced, before scores are settled, the numbers and colours and stolen punch cards reordered. And, indeed, in these last three sections, outside my own role-playing of Endymion, I follow Sabina through the last stages of her journey in the Ministry building (the Ministry whose mission statement is encased in a business name), the Barton Fink/ Naked Lunch typewriters so central to the making of a surrogate literary masterpiece, the optical strain, the coloured lights and labelled buttons, the exalted nature of mad science fantasy, the twelve coloured segments of sleep, the order of the keys, the sororal sacraments and sacrifices “…between randomness and repetitions. Tape reels at various speeds,…” Codes and occult sentences deposited meticulously. The secret waters of internal self-plagiarism made open and distinct, with sleep’s help. Or, rather, a sleeper’s help, a real-time reviewer as made from dream and reality and a past that never existed till now. Fingers moving, choreographed, syncopated. An elevator in a blackout. Hum of writing machines like long-drawn out ritual minimalisms. Tapesync as Tapestry.

    • “We may delude ourselves, but that’s hardly the point. We must give voice to the irrational as an act of conscience. It’s the closest thing we have to prayer.” – from ‘The Siren of Montmartre’ by Damian Murphy

  10. 0A964F35-57C3-4EE9-B5A3-2B56614D34BF
    “Over the course of several weeks, Giselle had managed to piece together the outline of narrative from the less oblique among the journal entries.”
    This is the last item I chose from the box. As I learnt very recently (‘Schrödinger’s’ here) to think outside the box you need to be inside the box in order to do so! This text concerns Giselle a sort of girl with pearl earrings where her literary Vermeer is a mock veneer, and when finding the seemingly impenetrable journal of her master she examines it with her own occult rituals tutored by the rest of this rich sturdy pendant panoptic box created by Damian and Mount Abraxas that she is within. Exploring, too, like Sabina. Candle-Dreaming à la paraffin. With imperious white flame. A young man on the bed in a mask. The white stone again as Silene’s moon? Boris, too, I sense, (“the perils of diplomatic service”), and other “sowers of contention”. A painting of secret waters (the Ransome ‘secret water’ of a Father (Ford Madox) Brown pre-Raphaelite Walton-on-the-Naze where I first lived), “the caprices of the sea.”


Tuesday, March 20, 2018

Black Static #62 / Interzone #274


Black Static #62 / Interzone #274

TTA PRESS Mar – Apr 2018
My previous reviews of this publisher HERE.
Stories by E. Catherine Tobler, Jack Westlake, David Martin, Kay Chronister, Michael Wehunt, James Sallis, Antony Johnston, Julie C. Day, Michael Reid, T.R. Napper, Alexandra Renwick, Eliot Fintushel.
When I review these stories, my thoughts will appear in the comment stream below….

15 thoughts on “Black Static #62 / Interzone #274


    EFD7607D-774C-47DD-8936-C51CDE0BE8D8SANGUINARY SCAR by E. Catherine Tobler
    “…how sometimes to save a thing you have to cut pieces of it away so that it may heal into something entirely new.”
    Who would guess that the cover depicts one of this story’s “veils”, but, in hindsight, that seems wholly appropriate. A sort of Handmaid’s Tale refocused with a deeply dripping ominousness and in powerful overdrive, where DUTY is paramount, where one man called Mantock needs to renew his dead son Lyric in some cross between a maze and labyrinth, a place half-drowned by its dystopic seas or chequered with old blood. Sky bridges and tunnels. Rowboats and rowers. And Arden, masturbatorily ardent till she meets her match at the end, is the daughter of Mantock and central to this story, long having been submitted to his relentless obsession to use all manner of others’ enforced sexual unions to recreate his Lyric, even close family incest, Arden included, and the attritional panning out of such repercussions is this plot. A Shakespearean ending to end all such endings. I feel as if I have been made to wear a welder’s helmet. I feel done in. Suffocated, not swaddled. And I mean that as a positive. Quenching a now perceived need to sacrifice myself, as if with a hindsight hairshirt, scar-branded with muck and blood. A man needs marking, too, I reckon.
    My previous reviews of this author:
    by Jack Westlake
    “It’s like wearing a headguard in a boxing match.”
    Not ready for Lidl or Aldi, the narrator – of this mightily powerful literal nerve-tugging crunch as a short-short’s test of the reader’s own forbearance – uses the less cheap Sainsbury’s alcohol aisle to help lift his addiction.
    Effectively a telling study in various comparative theories of addiction, with the ultimate culmination of contamination between them and the people thus addicted. It is also a perfect follow up to the previous story and its ‘veil’ with welder’s helmet as headguard, plus the grinding attrition there, and now here the narrator’s tall near-albino mate Dwight “light enough to blow away” … indeed himself thus like a veil. And I won’t look at broken glass the same way again after this experience!
  3. THINGS BEHIND THE SUN by David Martin
    “Fear, whatever its root, can make you do anything. And that’s what a ghost is – an effect looking for a way to become a cause.”
    This is a horror story’s horror story, an honest, linear, emotionally plainspoken, if sometimes melodramatic, perhaps over-extended account of the power of music, here closely weaved with the narrator’s backstory and love life and intrinsic sense of doom and abyss, through hearing a record, by the eponymous rock group, a secret message of things personal and things cosmic. I can imagine many readers loving this work, simply for what it is, an epiphany. I feel attached to it by its embracing coincidences as part of its plot, a preternatural rock symphony of synchronicity and gestalt. And, indeed, in the last few days, I have myself real-time reviewed a novel with references to Kurt Cobain ( and a separate story about seeking a rare insidious rock music LP (Goat Songs: I also somehow sense a retrocausal track from vinyl to computer upload, from helmet to veil….
    by Kay Chronister
    “I shut my eyes and saw the veins snaking across your forehead, the veil slipping loose.”
    This is a story of veins (felt or seen as part of the unrequited young love exchange of near cousins, in Marseille and elsewhere): and veils (with a retrocausal birthline of vampiric death and a taking of the veil as a (sanguinary as bleeding?) nun that both resonate ironically with the earlier Tobler) and I counted several uses of ‘vein’ and ‘veil’ throughout the text, plus ‘half-veiled’ and ‘unveiled’. It is a lush Proustian work with tea and teacups and hyacinths instead of cattleyas, a work that I have relished as another epiphany. This work actually used the word “epiphany”, and I also feel my mouth sucking and probing words like “nascent” and “abject”. And it also made me want to pick up my copy of CLARISSA to reread it but I can only currently find PAMELA (volume two) and that sort of defeats my purpose. But who wrote which letters to whom, pretending to be who? I shall reread this story itself. It seems to be calling me. And is slightly shorter than CLARISSA.
    “a lifted vein”
    by Michael Wehunt
    “He thought this was another metaphor, one that held hands with the first.”
    All stories hold hands with others. And I am pleased to report that this substantive work in three parts is a worthy addition to the mighty Wehunt canon. Also, it deals with metaphors as veils (although that word is not used explicitly). And such have always been an essential ingredient of my gestalt real-time reviewing or hawling (a savouring of words and the odd change in a letter, here CORSE (corpse, course, coarse) as we were told to savour ‘nascent’ and ‘abject’ in the previous story, and somewhere here in the Wehunt I noted, for example, ‘treat’ used instead of ‘teat’) – metaphors to which I often refer with the TS Eliot version of metaphors as ‘objective-correlatives’, and here it is the Robert Frost version, defaulting towards us in the margins. The story has ‘gauze’ for wounds, ‘milky grey’, ‘milky gloom’, photos that first appear as ‘gray squares’, ‘a dim stripe of non-color, but a dark blurry bar’ defaulting to an antlered shape, ‘colorless gray sheets like lost ghosts’, ‘delicate symbolism’, ‘stripped of its textures and literal meanings’. So much to link this story to the others above, hand in hand, baptising, marking, an unrequited bereavement… it tells of a man whose five year old daughter was killed in a mass killing by a pastor of a Baptist church, and he is now haunted by or randomly, preternaturally drawn towards such churches, ones with the word CORSE in their names, and he is using a stray dog as objective-correlative in this quest, a dog perhaps aptly he calls Grace, while both he and his separated wife are texting each other about their own versions of conduit or exorcism. The visions seen through these word-savourings and metaphors engulf the reader, are frightening but strangely leading to some comfort. The ‘tending of pastures’ under the auspices of an antlered God as God or as the Devil. And, finally, as I said above about the first story, perhaps a man needs marking, too. And here in this story that we hunt together: “Would you be marked, something asked him, something far from a voice and more like a woolen texture in the air,…” Woolen, not wooden. See my own original photo above at the head of this review.
    “The story wrote itself on the shore with a great pause.”
    My previous reviews of this author:

    “Carefully matching the speed and flow of other cars on their way upstream,…”
    A change of gear, a new road, to emulate adventures we had in jalopies in the old days, a potentially long journey’s short short, told from the POV of the driver and the nature of his music-driven customers past and present, the ultimate journey of adventure blending in and out of the pre-taught traffic rhythms and the random glitches of traffcom, an experience that the red Koyaanasqatsi lines above, as I sense they are, draw you into the lanes, but with constructively stalling words sticky with white print on black, a tantalising tactile brain reading, and so I now sense the face speed-unskimmed (or unveiled?) from beneath the face you once had, toward its optimum, as if one’s last excited or terrified face is a premonitory version of one’s heaven or beautiful quiet hell? Or perhaps there is no exit at all from the roaring freeway? Better Glass than Fado.
  7. 5CBEED45-8901-4FCB-87BE-46A0BD87C71B
    SOUL MUSIC by Antony Johnston
    “Only a few people knew how to zig and zag just right,…”
    No H in the fore-name nor E at the end of the sur-. But that may be the only link with the word-play in Black Static above. Though we do have Cordwainer Smith type masks here that are not masks at all. And a bridge to the previous Interzone story, even if the bridge (symbolised in Florida in the last few days) collapsed leaving this community of neologisms as souls or snorting souldust alive in a cut off alien world of music streams and printing 3D as nihilist 3Darks (sometimes a word that looks like Daleks to match the Whovian guitar and smashing it as The Who once did). If I say so myself, I did understand the whole of this story — its plots and man-woman type relationship hiding ploys and decoys of avant gardens and deployed gigs, and machinations in this bridgeless world, its hang-ups and theories, even its many to-your-eyes neologisms of meaning, and that is because I have learned how to zig and zag in tune with the driving in the previous story above, to fit into a literary work’s traffic flow — simply because I have spent ten years doing these gestalt real-time reviews! I have brained up my own guitar, as it were. But I cannot PROVE that I fully understood this story. But I did. The story itself has helped me along to zig and zag even better, I’d say and I can give it no greater compliment. A Faaro for Fado? “Mob backing, more likely.” A ‘Noise Music’ I have learnt in my own life from a daily Webern. “when the bridge collapsed” The Quiet and the Closure. “kudzu of lights” the previous story’s “buffering stream” the cat Face unveiled, “the role of art in a dead world”…
  8. SCHRÖDINGER’S by Julie C. Day
    “We were molecularly isolated, a peep show in quantum flux,…”
    This sheds a new light on ‘out-of-the-box’ thinking – that you need to be IN the box to do it! The title imputes the CAT at the tail-end of the previous story, while we ourselves as readers in the know, as it were, have our brains further niftily tickled with thoughts we would otherwise not have thought. A solving of the world’s problems, its future-encroaching smoke and physical ricochet of war including the then recent trouble at the Mexican border, all divertingly subsumed within a strip-club concept of quantum possibilities, and holding that possibility in your mind against all the odds. A sort of pole-dancing with all manner of unimaginable sexual baubles. All revolved and centred around some believable well-characterised women strip club ‘businesswomen’ who leapfrogged Dragon’s Den and went straight to the Science, and applied its findings for all our ultimate welfare, each of us potentially living in an optimum example of one of those possibilities created outside of the box from inside it. ‘Blue’ sky thinking at today’s bleak event-horizon of veils and piques. I feel it working already.
    My previous reviews of this author:
  9. NEVER THE TWAIN by Michael Reid
    “I won’t die in a box.”
    …which is at least ironic in view of the previous story!
    But, intrinsically, there is no irony within this story’s own box of shared timelines, unless it is an irony of fate and disease and some control between them that is left unsaid here, but perhaps an even deeper irony represented by this Muslim central character and his or her sister’s niqab veil, and the misguided racism of those who do not understand religion let alone irony. I say ‘his or her sister’ advisedly, because we also have trans-gender trans-timelines, and one of the most emotionally freighted moments in literature, I suggest, where a character half-dies because he or she does not want to contravene any protocol by lifting a cure for pancreatic cancer to his or her earlier timeline, from over 600 years beyond 2018. He or she is a ‘twain’ and this text is about a twain’s utter gestalt “twinge” (a word otherwise used innocently in the text). Not even Dr Zoo listens, and I cried. I laughed, too, at not mixing “eras” as a cryptic clue, in view of earlier ‘noise music’ in this now even more appropriate real-time review. A twinge of crying and laughing. “Like being awake with one brain, while having a nightmare with the other.”
    My previous reviews of this author:
    [As an aside, here ( is a blog post in 2006 which quotes something I wrote to be included in Brian Keene’s now legendary ‘Jobs In Hell’ column in 1999, including the pretentious passage below!
    “I even collaborate, in effect, onanistically-utilizing old unused pieces from the different think-world of an earlier, discrete self, mix-and-matching them with my current brain cycles. And talking about brains, mining a brand new story from fresh ore is also like collaborating if you’ve got two brains, as I have!”]
  10. B33024B2-3A50-4A94-8D9C-A0D7526D4D83OPIUM FOR EZRA by T.R. Napper
    “Just enough sedatives to stop the creeping claustrophobia, the paranoid fear that the world wasn’t real.”
    A constructively staccato with drugs, bots and people, one or all of them involved in a futurist oriental war, a real war or Lennon/Lenin IMAGINE, and somehow smoothly accretive realisation inside-the-box to create outside-the-box thinking (“Blue sky, forever.”) and this box is an Eromanga (tellingly in view of Julie C. Day story?) tank as a titan of war and its (or that of its inhabitants/driver/ squad) receiving red-streamed messages amid a “guitar lick intro” etc of an approaching unexpected meeting with what I assumed all the way will be this story’s plot twist or rationale, or even irrationale. It also has the front covers of this Black Static and Interzone at least adumbrated: “Troops nearby burst into flames. Little Roman candles running around,…” and the niqab veils ironically again something like “Sleek black armour, opaque oval helmet […] cracked visor”]. Whether stereotypes, caricatures, “obedient characters” or real people, the reader is not you but Ezra, and this story is its own drug transcending the 19th century opium of any steampunk travesty.
    “The fusion reactor wound up, making a noise akin to young girls screaming.”
    My previous reviews of this author:
  11. “When it came, he’d float in the womb, inside a whale, inside—“
    – from above T.R. Napper story.

    baleen, baleen

    by Alexandra Renwick
    “…drawing aside the shimmering velvety curtain.”
    This is a very impressive work for me, especially also as a culmination of this double-review’s ‘veil’ gestalt. I was utterly captivated by it and I would also highly recommend it as a stand-alone rhapsody or rapture of drowning as a creative force (not so much having one’s life events flashing before the mind, but more slightly or significantly changing the ingredients and humans of the world that you left behind for good or ill, when you link back to it as a retrocausal or quantum force as also adumbrated by the previous Reid and Day stories above) – but there is far more that only reading it will tease or worry out from the threads, that wool in my original photo above, an itchy wool now explicitly made into a blanket to dry off on when you re-emerge, and “ratty gym gear”, a trawling, a hawling, with weights and pulleys, a gestalt review of one’s life with, as I say, a retrocausal force, a force that is welcome or not? It also has the “sexual eagerness” of the Day. And Napper’s own baleen whale, “all pinged and jounced away”.
    My previous review of this author:
  12. My gestalt real-time review of the cabinet or box in THE MADNESS OF DR. CALIGARI anthology: and what’s in or out.
    “; seeing his empty body dangle limp as a puppet on cut strings with its lifeless limbs weighted toward the darkness below wasn’t at all the same as looking in a mirror;” — from the above story by Alexandra Renwick.

    ZEN by Eliot Fintushel
    “What’s ‘in’ or ‘out’ to such as you, zen man?”
    Here we arrive at the ZenCore. if not Cone Zero or Dr. (Cern) Zoo, and this, for me, is also the coda to my double-review’s hoped-for symphony of meaning and extrapolation. Not Ezra’s opium but “the raptures and crapulence of zoot.” Delilah, whose position on the multi-crewed spacecraft is felt by her (and her alone) to be infiltrated by alien Xesans, whom she decides to kill by killing her own self that, she believes, effectively crafts them as a mutuality — thus to save Earth from these aliens, amid much other mind-tickling of the reader about their alien nature, notwithstanding Lord Buddha, the Butterfly Effect and the Stockholm Syndrome. It could be the ultimate Renwick-type sacrifice along with Day-Napper-Reid causality. But which is the puppet dreaming or controlling which other puppets, the reader and author included as well as Delilah and the Xesans themselves.
    My previous reviews of Eliot Fintushel:
    Thus ends my review of the fiction in both these magazines that also teem with other things.