You could learn to accept the river. This I came to see as I walked. As I struggled to find a lasting bridge. That is, you could teach yourself to get used to it. The smoke. The smells. The misty gullies no man trod. The outward outbound ledges of doom jutting up over the horizon like stilted pixies. The fear. The rotting teeth. The mysterious coughing under the blankets at night. Sudden swords poking men to their deaths. The bad films. Pottery shards from another age mistaken for teeth in the sudden summer air. Men drunk with light after a night in the caves. The drums. You could adapt to the rhythms. You could learn the way of things. At least, I found, until it rained. It began to rain. Just to test my theory.

It rained that morning and all the day through. Rain like the spit of dragons. Thunder like the swirl in a vortex, cracking through the trees. Black rain. Dead rain. Sullen patches of rain and unforgiving rain.

"The grotesquely beautiful will be convulsive or it will be nothing at all. By that standard, this work by RW Spryszak is certainly something. What that something is will be a function of what the reader brings to the book and is willing to discover in it. You may find that it's about being haunted by truths and fictions that are entirely unbearable and entirely unavoidable. About the most difficult labyrinths to escape from, the ones in the mind. About whether it's our monsters and phantoms, or our saints and sacred images, that are the most dangerous. About the unfriendly fascism right around the corner and something even more frightening around the corner after that. About the fear of losing your mind, the fear of the world losing its mind, the fear of inevitable decay. In any case, if this story does not terrify you, you're not paying attention."

Max Cafard/ Author, "Lightning Storm Mind: Pre-Ancientist Meditations"

"Reminiscent of early surrealist tales, brings to mind not only the unsettling stories of André Pierre de Mandiargues, but of that far-off landscape of Gaspard de la Nuit... Looking for Gaspard, the author says: 'He is in hell, provided that he isn't somewhere else." One has to ask: Where is Edju? In some dim past that can't help slipping effortlessly into an unsettling future."

J. Karl Bogartte/Author, "And Still the Navigator"

"Like the traveling ostrich or a syrup spill in reverse—Spryszak's language-serpent burrows deep."

Steven Cline/Co-editor of Peculiar Mormyrid

RW Spryszak