 |
 |
Description: Literary Fiction, Illustrated, Quantum, Existential
Formed from memories of dreams of memories, Snail is journey of life, introspection, and familial
connectitude. Its seven interconnected stories are bonded by mood, plot, a single set of
characters, and heart felt emotion; yet separated in a very dream like fashion by time, space, and
logic of reality. Beautifully adorned by the artworks of Irene Frenkel, this book is not simply a work
to be read and considered, it is a texturized and exhilarating cosmic dance for all the senses.
Reviews:
Admittedly much of Snail seems to be pure hallucinogenic fantasy balancing on the edge of
comprehensibility, the snail appearing here and there and everywhere like some sort of obsessive
ghost, but there are stories here as touching as touching ever gets. Like the one about grandma’s
obsession with old picture albums: ‘What is real life?’ you ask. Your grandmother points at the
family album, ‘This is real life.....Your plan is simple: you’ll visit every single page and examine every
single face in the album....the moon shivers, and the photos are instantly turned into negatives....’
pp. 71, 73).
____Old family albums. Everyone’s ghosts. And even the kookiest stories here still touch edge-of-
dream/edge-of-nightmare regions in all of us. Like being haunted by memories of the past: ‘In the
evening, tall, elongated silhouettes appeared in your father’s house. They silently slipped through
the doors and scattered into corners He didn’t invite them, but they didn’t care.’ (p.37).Originally
from the Ukraine, Ulea has a definite Eastern European imaginativeness about her and doesn’t see
her work as fantasy but the ‘real’ her: ‘I write what I experience and I experience what I write -- no
more, no less....sometimes quantum, sometimes Euclidean, and sometimes a mixture of
everything. Therefore I simply call it poliverse.; (p.91). How about ‘genius-verse?’
____Printed in white on black paper with hallucinogenic genius drawings throughout by Irene
Frenkel who has an MA in arts from the Moscow Institute of Graphic Arts. Welcome to pictures at a
firebird exhibition. A must-read!”
____~ Hugh Fox,
They slip effortlessly and seamlessly from reality to fantasy and back. These made me wonder, for
example, whether there is a fairy tale in Russian literature or in Russian folklore regarding the snail,
or one (or more) regarding the relationship between mothers and grandmothers, etc. Either way,
these are very interesting and enjoyable in a quasi-reality kind of way. Of course, I expected them
to be well written and enjoyable because I expected from you the same turns of phrase etc. that
imbues your poetry, and I was not disappointed. Especially at those places where the story flowed
from one reality to another, your seamless transitions were all but surreal. They were not harsh
and mind twisting, but soft and transparent and mind-turning, as if written of and on gossamer....
Excellent.....
____~ Harvey Stanbrough, Poet, Writer, National Book Award nominee
Formed from memories of dreams of memories, Snail is journey of life, introspection, and familial
connectitude. Its seven interconnected stories are bonded by mood, plot, a single set of
characters, and heart felt emotion; yet separated in a very dream like fashion by time, space, and
logic of reality. Beautifully adorned by the artworks of Irene Frenkel, this book is not simply a work
to be read and considered, it is a texturized and exhilarating cosmic dance for all the senses.
Reviews:
Admittedly much of Snail seems to be pure hallucinogenic fantasy balancing on the edge of
comprehensibility, the snail appearing here and there and everywhere like some sort of obsessive
ghost, but there are stories here as touching as touching ever gets. Like the one about grandma’s
obsession with old picture albums: ‘What is real life?’ you ask. Your grandmother points at the
family album, ‘This is real life.....Your plan is simple: you’ll visit every single page and examine every
single face in the album....the moon shivers, and the photos are instantly turned into negatives....’
pp. 71, 73).
____Old family albums. Everyone’s ghosts. And even the kookiest stories here still touch edge-of-
dream/edge-of-nightmare regions in all of us. Like being haunted by memories of the past: ‘In the
evening, tall, elongated silhouettes appeared in your father’s house. They silently slipped through
the doors and scattered into corners He didn’t invite them, but they didn’t care.’ (p.37).Originally
from the Ukraine, Ulea has a definite Eastern European imaginativeness about her and doesn’t see
her work as fantasy but the ‘real’ her: ‘I write what I experience and I experience what I write -- no
more, no less....sometimes quantum, sometimes Euclidean, and sometimes a mixture of
everything. Therefore I simply call it poliverse.; (p.91). How about ‘genius-verse?’
____Printed in white on black paper with hallucinogenic genius drawings throughout by Irene
Frenkel who has an MA in arts from the Moscow Institute of Graphic Arts. Welcome to pictures at a
firebird exhibition. A must-read!”
____~ Hugh Fox,
They slip effortlessly and seamlessly from reality to fantasy and back. These made me wonder, for
example, whether there is a fairy tale in Russian literature or in Russian folklore regarding the snail,
or one (or more) regarding the relationship between mothers and grandmothers, etc. Either way,
these are very interesting and enjoyable in a quasi-reality kind of way. Of course, I expected them
to be well written and enjoyable because I expected from you the same turns of phrase etc. that
imbues your poetry, and I was not disappointed. Especially at those places where the story flowed
from one reality to another, your seamless transitions were all but surreal. They were not harsh
and mind twisting, but soft and transparent and mind-turning, as if written of and on gossamer....
Excellent.....
____~ Harvey Stanbrough, Poet, Writer, National Book Award nominee
| $22.00 CDN 94 pp. ISBN 978-1-926617-06-0 |
| Links will open a new window at PayPal's secure site PayPal receipt is your receipt |
Snail page one...
At all times and for always there has been a Snail.
____That’s what the Snail thought, too, for she had existed for eternity and expected it to be this way now and forever after.
____Each time you walk along the winding gloomy corridors of her mansion streaked with the moist glowing in space curvatures you wonder whether you
are alone, or she is still hiding in the mucous dusk building a bridge between the mansion and your fearful mind. You cross the bridge, and your fears come to
life, formless and slimy, coiling around your every nerve and whispering to you words about the Snail.
____Do you remember how your mother frightened you with those dull stories about the Snail, the stories she usually began with those creepy words “once
upon a time there lived a Snail”? Those stories were made up by your Grandmother who still lives in a distant district of your mother’s brain, dictating to her
things you can’t hear.
____“Once upon a time,” a voice says. Whose voice is it? You suddenly remember a story, an old story that your Grandmother told you in the voice of your
mother… Have you ever had a mother? You think you do… Well, let’s see… Do you remember how you were born, who was behind you? These are things
one must remember if only he is not a… You are not a… are you?
____So, tell me how all that happened. It’s getting dark and we must clarify at least something until… Until what? Just until. You can’t say until what because
it would sound like you know the future. But you don’t. You don’t – and this is the trick. You start your journey, move ahead, but you never know if there’s
a road. You feverishly grasp for that seemingly promising word “until” with the help of which you model the future, standing a few seconds from nothingness.
“Wait until morning,” you mumble as if you know that the morning will come. But what if the night never ends? What if you stay in the dark to the rest of
your life?
____“Wait until morning,” you stubbornly whisper, chasing away those thoughts. You play a game with your fears, a childish game that excludes darkness
extended beyond your blanket woven from fairytales – the blanket you brought from your childhood when you had been hiding from the uncertainty
reigning in the world... ... ...
At all times and for always there has been a Snail.
____That’s what the Snail thought, too, for she had existed for eternity and expected it to be this way now and forever after.
____Each time you walk along the winding gloomy corridors of her mansion streaked with the moist glowing in space curvatures you wonder whether you
are alone, or she is still hiding in the mucous dusk building a bridge between the mansion and your fearful mind. You cross the bridge, and your fears come to
life, formless and slimy, coiling around your every nerve and whispering to you words about the Snail.
____Do you remember how your mother frightened you with those dull stories about the Snail, the stories she usually began with those creepy words “once
upon a time there lived a Snail”? Those stories were made up by your Grandmother who still lives in a distant district of your mother’s brain, dictating to her
things you can’t hear.
____“Once upon a time,” a voice says. Whose voice is it? You suddenly remember a story, an old story that your Grandmother told you in the voice of your
mother… Have you ever had a mother? You think you do… Well, let’s see… Do you remember how you were born, who was behind you? These are things
one must remember if only he is not a… You are not a… are you?
____So, tell me how all that happened. It’s getting dark and we must clarify at least something until… Until what? Just until. You can’t say until what because
it would sound like you know the future. But you don’t. You don’t – and this is the trick. You start your journey, move ahead, but you never know if there’s
a road. You feverishly grasp for that seemingly promising word “until” with the help of which you model the future, standing a few seconds from nothingness.
“Wait until morning,” you mumble as if you know that the morning will come. But what if the night never ends? What if you stay in the dark to the rest of
your life?
____“Wait until morning,” you stubbornly whisper, chasing away those thoughts. You play a game with your fears, a childish game that excludes darkness
extended beyond your blanket woven from fairytales – the blanket you brought from your childhood when you had been hiding from the uncertainty
reigning in the world... ... ...
| $17.60 |