![]() “The 350 pages of a novel,” Crandall argues early on, “are tedious elaboration.” He nonetheless proceeds to deliver himself of a book clocking in at roughly twice that length. “He was just a kid,” is the whole of his tribute to a teenager who died in a motorcycle accident. Though a sports memorabilia dealer by trade, Crandall thinks of himself first as a writer doing innovative work in the genre of the one-sentence story. Moody here undertakes an extended impersonation of a long-winded ham, convincingly so.Ĭrandall lives in a scruffy Arizona town in the year 2025, a zany, dystopian time when many consumers have smart phones surgically implanted in their wrists, and Major League Baseball allows players to use not only performance-enhancing drugs but also even bionic limbs. ![]() This character is not the narrator of the novel but the “author” of a slab of sci-fi horror hack work coextensive with it. Following a dedication page that offers his fifth novel to the memory of Kurt Vonnegut implicitly announcing as his goal to employ Vonnegut’s shades of dark comedy and fluorescent farce Rick Moody turns things over in “The Four Fingers of Death” to one Montese Crandall. ![]()
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