—Dustin Illingworth, 3:AM
Sleekly liquid work, the poetry of seething matter itself.
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.
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.
The thing that renders Blecher’s gaze so penetrating is the eroticism that dwells in all things, pining to get out.
—The Times Literary Supplement
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.