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on Jan. 31, 2011 :
Passionless, cosmic ennui—the common cry of the newly-divorced Western man, in search of any experience to make him once again feel what he once felt—or thought he felt. I felt myself smirking in agreement as I read DN Charles brilliant descent into the maelstrom of his wounded heart; indeed, as one of the “Brotherhood of Lost Souls,” his story resonates at a universal pitch.
If this had been merely a book chronicling a man’s fractured, hell-bent descent into cheap sex with a string of prostitutes, one could have put it down quickly. Been there, done that—an unguided missile expelling the backlog of lust one builds up over a long marriage long since past going through the motions. Or simply copulating to channel one’s anger at being adrift—fucking it out of one’s system.
But this book is not that; instead it’s a sojourn in recapturing a man’s emotional soul—an expose into healing, or regenerating, the “outer layer of tissue torn from the heart.” How? Through the tactile expression of touch, caress, kiss—the foreplay ultimately leading to that mourned lost ability to love, ultimately expressed in the healing power of intercourse. As such, it’s a profound inner journey into the approximation of wholeness (yes, men do have a penetrating inner life, which culture, society, evolution demands be kept locked away. And rightly so—sitting around a Neolithic campfire, blubbering and gushing about one’s emotional hurts would have been far from practical; thus distracted the wolves would’ve carried off the children. Time better spent flaking off the excess flint from a spear point, never owning up the chips relentlessly struck from one’s heart).
It’s no surprise that Charles is a poet; “Child” is an introspective stream of consciousness; an atmospheric, though oddly calming, metaphor. Superb writing of the first magnitude. Read it, “lost brothers,” and you will find you are not alone. You, too, “lost sisters;” you will find that you were never as alone as you felt.
(reviewed within a month of purchase)