Prison Mars, by Lauren Fairbanks
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“Prepare yourself for the rant of a lifetime” the octogenarian narrator warns early in this hilariously bizarre novel, a “psycho-bitch” mother’s confession wrapped in a sci-fi eco-fiction package. As Earth undergoes environmental cleansing, the nameless narrator reviews her toxic relationship with her two daughters in three Molly Bloomish monologues that are by turns funny and disgusting. (The daughters get their own section, as does a future minion of the Mars subterfuge.) The language brings the fun in: Mommie dearest sounds off like a wisecracking dame in a noir film—breezy, abrupt, insouciant—with hints of the late styles of Beckett and Brossard, maybe notes of Gertrude Stein . . . Céline’s machine-gun blasts . . . some Sorrentino (a fave of the narrator’s) and Burroughs. The result is a sardonic novel that suggests environmental improvements will never be protection enough against the flawed humans who inhabit the planet.
—Steven Moore
author of The Novel: An Alternative History
PRAISE FOR LAUREN FAIRBANKS
Sister Carrie (1993)
“WELCOME TO THE FUTURE OF AMERICAN FICTION! Sister Carrie reads as if Dreiser said 'I love you' but didn't mean it, went to bed with Donald Barthelme and William Burroughs, and named the result Lauren Fairbanks.”
—Lance Olsen
author of Circus of the Mind in Motion
“. . . Fairbanks' sentences are densely packed verbal samples that read like a strange marriage between the drek-filled collages of Donald Barthelme and the subversive sensibilities of Kathy Acker.”
—Mark Amerika
Philadelphia Inquirer
Muzzle Thyself (1991)
“What a strange mixture of literariness and originality. Fairbanks magically meshes the rhythms and textures of American poetry . . . with her own feminine feminist and very angry voice and music.”
—Kathy Acker
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“Prepare yourself for the rant of a lifetime” the octogenarian narrator warns early in this hilariously bizarre novel, a “psycho-bitch” mother’s confession wrapped in a sci-fi eco-fiction package. As Earth undergoes environmental cleansing, the nameless narrator reviews her toxic relationship with her two daughters in three Molly Bloomish monologues that are by turns funny and disgusting. (The daughters get their own section, as does a future minion of the Mars subterfuge.) The language brings the fun in: Mommie dearest sounds off like a wisecracking dame in a noir film—breezy, abrupt, insouciant—with hints of the late styles of Beckett and Brossard, maybe notes of Gertrude Stein . . . Céline’s machine-gun blasts . . . some Sorrentino (a fave of the narrator’s) and Burroughs. The result is a sardonic novel that suggests environmental improvements will never be protection enough against the flawed humans who inhabit the planet.
—Steven Moore
author of The Novel: An Alternative History