Dropping "E" THE MYSTERY OF THE MISSING VOWEL IS NEVER SOLVED by Allison D*v*rs graphic courtesy of The Harvill Press For all bookish Nancy D. girls and Hardy Boys out in our world, A Void is a whodunit that joins many crazy and distant plots and subplots, illusions and allusions, with what is without fail familiar to any man, woman or child who is known to scan fluffy books sitting in a rack at a local Giant or quirky quick-mart. Our author has a dazzling linguistic vocabulary, as shown in a constant, solid flow of many synonyms and antonyms surpassing what any Tom, Dick, or Harry has invariably caught sight of. This, in combination with many killings, kidnappings, shoot 'm ups and show 'm downs, brings forth an onslaught of a book, almost actualizing a full, scholarly vision. But, without a doubt, it is not this vision. "Why?" you ask. Only look to our protagonist, Mr. Anton Vowl, for justification. Our main man, Mr. A. Vowl has found that his, his visitors' and our story contains a void. La Disparation was first writ a la français but thanks (and kudos) to a brilliant and profound Mr. Adair, is now l'anglais for the USA's scanning joy (naturally, G. Britain's and Austrailia's too). As just brought up, our protagonist Mr. Vowl has an opinion that a void is in his radius, a "thing" is missing; a blank, dark shadow is occurring and haunting all spirits with an unknowingly disturbing past. Actually, nobody knows what this void is, and Anton knows nothing of what is truth. But it is his will to confront this gap in his mind and fill it only with facts. And so starts our story. Anton at this point is a chronic insomniac in a drunk stupor. His brain is foggy. His mind is a whirlwind of hallucinations. Half out of his wits, Anton looks to a doctor for support, not crying wolf as a hypochondriac would. This is to no avail, as his condition is puzzling and no physical rubdown or "opathy" will aid him. Anton is still out of his wits, looking for a way to bring his crazy brain down from a tsunami of thoughts. Our first insights into A Void pull in many plots, quickly moving up and down, in and out of so many hallways and stairs, that it is hard to plow through. But as soon as that jump is aloft, you can't turn back. It is at this point, as if in mid-flight on a 747 in which it is okay to undo that cinch around your waist and grab a soda or intoxicant from a flight-girl or guy (P. C., you know), that you hold on, as if for Mr. Toad's Wild Trip. Upon this unfolding of a cryptic gap, rift, hollow, void that is lurking around his lodging, alas­no sight is caught of Anton. His thoughts accompanying his body go missing. And his companions slowly sniff that a buddy is lost. His illustrating odor shows his faithful chums around gay Paris, particularly through old Anton's flat and at this location, put his own diary and journals through painstaking scrutiny. Trouncing through his many scrawlings, it is found that using up his artistic ability, Anton is sort of citing but sort of changing BookWorld's history. His companions spot many allusions as this citation shows: "'If that word's our sign of parting, Satan's bird,' I said, upstarting, 'Fly away, wing blackly parting, to thy Night's Plutonian plain! For, mistrustful, I would scorn to mind that untruth thou hast sworn to, And I ask that thou by morn tomorrow quit my sad domain! Draw thy night-nibb'd bill form out my soul and quit my sad domain!' Quoth that Black Bird, 'Not Again.'" Not only did Anton modify "A Black Bird," including a void, but did this also with many distinct Top Hits of Lit 101 such as: "Ozymandias" by P.B.S., Rimbaud's "Vocalizations," Mr. John Milton, "On His Glaucoma" and good old Willy's soliloquy, "Living, or not living: that is what I ask." Through Mr. Vowl's jottings, his Bloodhound Gang finds a scanty total of hints and signs to Anton's location and status (living or not-living ... ?) which conduct all to look inward and find out about a ubiquitous subconscious in our total population, and so naturally Vowl's companions also approach a void. From this compilation of information, a long drawn out history from which many backgrounds turn into participants is told, with a void always taking first position. Our author's ability to turn and twist words, stuffing nouns down throats by circumlocution of that infamous void is amazing, although at particular points hard to swallow. Truly, in just skimming the book, organs of sight can pop out, bug out, and turn blood shot. Purplish is a color of this book's pain, as it is full of prolixity, a tautology if you will, of composition. Our author is not using a gimmick to traffic his book for public consumption. No doubt about it, this story follows a grand custom in writing. Much like Mr. Carroll of Allison's Trip Through A Looking Glass distinction, our author plays with words and symbols, utilizing tricks amidst a rigid constraint (that of a void). Writing by his own formula, Mr. G. P. is as much an absurdist as any Dada Duchamp. His skills, as astounding as any circus contortionist, juxtaposing his words about as rhythmically and smoothly as any Martha Graham skip and swing. Still, it is hard to grip, author not at fault, for as much as in writing such a story is thought a frightfully tough task , it is oft arduous to plough through. You must put on trial not its many plots and subplots, but simply its thick, dank-as-a-wood jargon: "Nobody's willing to talk about it, to put a word to it, so causing us all to fall victim to a form of damnation of which nothing is known. What awaits us all is a fatality from which no man or woman in this room has any sort of immunity, a fatality which will carry us off in our turn without our knowing why any of us is dying for." Much of the wording is like this, as is what you are scanning right now (incrimination is a #1 policy). As author of A Void, formally known as La Disparition, Mr. G. P. shows a world in which much can occur. His form follows in grand footprints of many silly but not foolhardy artists; this book is thrilling, in that it draws from a long history in which our public is giddily struck by a bolt of lyrical lightning. A storm of its mass will grasp away any albatross, and calm any strain. It allows a hiatus from a critical world and is incomparably gratifying in comparison to what that John Grisham stuff has to grant.

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