Max Blecher

Max Blecher

Adventures in Immediate Irreality

Fiction by Max Blecher

Translated by Michael Henry Heim

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Sleekly liquid work, the poetry of seething matter itself.

—Dustin Illingworth, 3:AM

A book deserving of new readers, by a writer whose remaining body of work I can only hope will finally appear in its entirety in this country.

The Nation

When you read his books it’s hard to believe your eyes. The author of this masterpiece was a twenty-five-year-old already weakened by disease, but Blecher’s words don’t merely describe the objects—they dig their talons into the things and hoist them high.

—Herta Müller

The thing that renders Blecher’s gaze so penetrating is the eroticism that dwells in all things, pining to get out.

—Herta Müller

Blecher has often been compared to Kafka (and not without reason), but the strongest connection, however, is with Salvador Dali. Like Dali’s ‘soft clocks,’ everything here is about to melt. It is as though Blecher’s world is always on the verge of ontological collapse; from behind the veil of things, nothingness stares out at him.

The Times Literary Supplement

An extraordinary writer, in the family of Kafka and Bruno Schulz. A short life, overwhelmed by disease; a small—but great—magical work. Hallucinatory, intense, and deeply authentic, its literary force is fueled, paradoxically and not entirely, by an acute sensitivity and ardor.

—Norman Manea
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