It should be noted that I was a big fan of the surrealist absurdist work for a full decade before David became a part of the Dickheads podcast. I have often said that Dr. Identity is one of the most hilarious reading experiences I have ever had. DHW’s fiction embodies a unique blend of speculative, genre commentary, satirical, fiercely intelligent, and intentionally absurd elements. This sequel to Outre’ veers deeper into the commentary than I remember the last book being.
A product of his most recent obsessions Outre felt influenced by J.G. Ballard, while Usuper feels very affected by the experience of writing Strangelove country. Caliban Ogg is the character at the center of this experimental narrative. A prodigal son who can’t escape his father’s shadow. He is in the process of making a movie in this weird future dystopia, a time described in the novel as after reality.
The novel constantly plays with art and identity, but Wilson’s commentary on science fiction, film studies and history’s greatest weirdos bleeds into the text. Schizflow…a term for Wilson’s fiction that he coined sure fits, and theory fiction also fits.
Here is the thing: if you have the right sense of humor. “Look at leap. Everybody knows that Victor Bleep is fabulous at walking down hallways. Nobody can beat him. Not even me. He is, for all intents and purposes, the best. We watch in awe as he ambles forward, carefully but resolutely, with signs of neither reluctance or ambiguity, like a funambulist on a high wire in the heavens of a circus tent. There is no high wire, no heavens, and no tent and no funambulist; he is who he purports to be: himself. Look at Bleep through this eyepiece. In the sepia-toned firelight of history, his body hangs in the balance as his limbs oscillate at equal distance intervals from the telltale walls that flank him. The measure of these intervals reflects the space between his skull to all the ceilings that have ever passed over him, allowing him to indulge in unruly geometries.”
Keep in mind that on page 58, the author word-for-word tells you that he “wants to fuck with the reader and get them to go to the gym.”
This absurdist novel takes place in a universe where reality has been lost, and D.Harlan Wilson speaks to himself and the reader about genre and art. In a way, it becomes a more honest commentary on film, science fiction, and D.Harlan Wilson than any essay could.
“Good evening. First, I would like to thank myself, who was instrumental in bringing this shitty picture to bear. I really can't thank myself enough. Myself is a good man and we all love him despite my flaws, which aren't that bad, it turns out, right? Everybody kills somebody if you live long enough, you know. Additionally, belief is not only the end of reason but the beginning of evil period, that's a quote from D. Harlan Wilson, my favorite dead writer despite his flaws, which are legion, both as a dead writer and as a dead human being. Nonetheless, historical documents corroborate that he was always working on himself to be a better man and a superior author, even as he destroyed life after life and strophe after strophe with his written truths. I say written truths, which are different than spoken truths. Spoken truths evaporate the moment they leave your maw. Written truths, on the contrary, live forever, and D. wrote down a lot of things about a lot of fucking dingbats.”
I laughed out loud constantly while reading this. I learned a few things and thought about other things. Mostly, I had a fun experience. Fans of weird fiction, aburdist SF, and D.Harlan Wilson will love this.
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