The kindle version of The Translation of Father Torturo is being offered for free for the next five days
1) Some poems that my wife and I transalted by Swiss-Italian poet Alberto Nessi are in the latest issue of the Poetry Salzburg Review.
2) At Innsmouth Free Press, Lyndsey Holder reviews Unpleasant Tales, saying:
“Connell is the Hieronymous Bosch of the written word…”
3) Ros Jackson at WarpcoreSF gives a nice review of the Blind Swimmer anthology.
4) Stephen Theaker at the Theaker’s Quarterly blog, reviews The Transation of Father Torturo, saying:
“I wouldn’t hesitate to recommend this provocative and grimly amusing book…”
5) The Life of Polycrates and Other Stories for Antiquated Children seems to be available for pre-order in the UK.
I did this offer once before and met with some success, so I decided to do it again, with some more copies I acquired from the publishers:
Buy a copy of Dr. Black in the Guerrillia from me and I will throw in a free signed copy of The Translation of Father Torturo. The Dr. Black book is 20 bucks, plus 3 bucks for media mail shipping to the U.S. (anyone living in another country please enquire about shipping rates.
If interested you can paypal me at email@example.com or e-mail me at huysmans67 at hot mail dot com.
As an addendum, here is a reviewish sort of post I lifted from Jeff Vandermeer’s old blog:
I’ve enjoyed Brendan Connell’s tales of Dr. Black, expert extraordinaire, for quite some time. Forrest Aguirre and I took one for Leviathan 3 and I took another for Album Zutique. Each new story seems to be better than the last, and the newest of all, Dr. Black and the Guerrillia (83 pages, hardcover, Grafitisk), is available in handsome 300-copy limited edition book form direct from the author.
In the novella, Dr. Black visits San Corrados, looking for the Yaroa tribe so he can finish off his latest book. As is the usual case in Dr. Black stories, Dr. Black strides through the landscape having odd adventures and barely escaping with his life. Not only does he encounter the Yaroa, but also the guerillas who are fighting to take back the country from the corrupt general who leads it. Of course, Dr. Black becomes embroiled in their efforts.
I’d be hard-pressed to pick my favorite parts of the narrative. I mean,
the encounter while “under the influence,” of some local druggery, with the God of Metanatural History ranks right up there. As does the slime molds playlet. As does the interior monologue leading up to Dr. Black’s possible shooting at the hands of a firing squad. It’s insanely wonderful stuff–daft, droll, and experimental in a fun way. (The book is also nicely illustrated by John Connell.) I’d also be hard-pressed to pluck an appropriate quote to entice you simply because Connell’s work contains so many pleasures, so instead here are a couple of snippets…
The deity had the head of a large, tropical American edentate (Myrmecophaga jubata) attached to the pale body of a man of affairs. He spoke, not in English, but rather in a variety of Pennsylvania-German-Pali-Middle-Mexican-Persian which the doctor, an able linguist, could perfectly understand.
Black inquired as to the significance of the objects in the glass case.
“Those are your sentiments Doctor,” the deity replied.
“And what are my sentiments doing here, might I ask?”
“This is the Heaven of Metanatural History, and it is where all the non-material parts of Earth’s imminent scientists are kept for both study and display.” The deity scratched its snout and then rolled out a long protrusile tongue.
“Would you like a blindfold?”
“No. I would prefer, at the moment of dissolution, to have my visual awareness entirely unimpaired.” [Dr. Black replied]
The other bowed stiffly. “As you wish.” He turned to the gunmen. “Ready!” he cried, opening an enormous mouthful of yellow teeth.
The doctor considering how a bullet can contain a supper of roast game…freedom…a river of sadness…the end of a noble career…travelling at two-thousand feet per second..with rifles positioned about thirty feet away…upon being fired…the projectiles would arrive in about twelve thousandths of a second…but taking into account air-resistance…partial differential equation…”
seeing: childhood = Alabama (to the sounds of Sweet Nadine: huge, crowned with red hair, her beautiful voice + his own father: a thick and elongated torso; great great great grandson of noted physician and chemist Joseph Black = discoverer of carbon dioxide…If he were killed he would sorely miss the chicken heart back at his laboratory on Long Island which he had kept alive for twenty-seven years pulsating in a solution of sea salt.
“This is unpleasant,” he thought.
It contains the following: “If you start reading it, you are not going to put it down before you get to the final page…”
Clouds of yellow smoke curled upward, like slowly revolving apparitions in the light of the immense and stately candles which were placed, dozen upon dozen, throughout the interior of the cathedral; – the ceiling, the cupola, seemingly as high over head as the night sky – thoroughly Romanesque, Byzantine, ornate décor protruding from all sides, dripping from above like stalactites, surging from the walls in carven stone and bronze panels, rising in grand pillars, winking in frescoed patches and chapels: the depiction of men at arms and others martyred; a few modern contrivances, the worst of contemporary art, dropped in, for juxtaposition, ugly slashes to enhance the already turbulent presence of the bizarre.
The small figure stood before the seated gathering. She sang into the microphone in an untrained, slightly cacophonic voice that was yet buttered with faith. Sheathed in the coarse, clean costume of her calling, vestal white; eyes like raisins behind simple spectacles; her voice uttered that modulated praise to Him, Master of all human affairs, Creator and Ruler of the universe.
The smoke plumed upward: aromatic, reminiscent of decomposed saints, hypnotic as it joined to the rhythmical chanting.
A beggar woman, a mad woman, obese and malformed (the majority of the weight being confined between her lower torso and hams), struggled along one darkened side of the cathedral, the struggle all the more grim for the radical difference in length between her left leg and right. The disparity was made up by a proportionate wooden heel, which shuffled and clapped along the floor. Others, healthy in leg if not feeble in mind, lay their hands on the sarcophagus of Saint Anthony.
But the vast majority of the visitors, pilgrims, rushed with remarkable haste onward, towards the brain of the cathedral. There a queue had formed and people pushed forward impatiently, rising on tip-toes and craning their necks. A child, a veritable cherub, innocent of social manners, wound its way ahead of the rest, its grandmother following in its wake, apologising as she went. It mounted the low steps on hands and knees and then, before the glass case, rose and stretched its arms out, the people parting on either side.
“Excuse me! Excuse me!” the grandmother said, hastening forward. And, with the words, “Oh, bambino,” on her smiling lips, she hoisted the child up, so it could view what it had so impetuously sought after: A tongue mounted on a pin, like a dried cactus; a jaw, gums intact, teeth the colour of gorgonzola.