While things move from the very ordinary, almost banal, into strange and at times impenetrable digressions, it feels like everything is taking place in one spot. For example, one of the characters in a story called “Gargling Swordfish” goes to war, but it isn’t clear that in going to war he ever actually leaves the living room. Then there’s that thing living in the corner of every story, lurking and watching. Reading Lewis is like running up a down escalator where the faster you go, the faster the escalator goes. You get in the middle and go nowhere. In the end, you suddenly notice that there’s some kind of highly intelligent, but monstrous form of life controlling the speed of the escalator. It’s as though Lewis has freed himself up to do whatever he wants with his words by handing over control to some lurking presence that lives just beyond the edge of reality. As a result, nothing in the centre of any of his stories feels as though it’s really of any consequence. Everything feels very gratuitous, like jerking off harder and harder, but never quite coming; not until the creature in the corner suddenly lurches out and sucks your brains through your ear. (KS)
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